


Liaison/Good for One Thing

by Corker



Series: Broken Dolls [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Bondage, Breast Play, Dom/sub, F/F, F/M, Group Sex, Loss of Virginity, Multi, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Spanking, interfemoral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corker/pseuds/Corker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Bethany spends two weeks as the Circle Liaison to Viscount's Keep, Seneschal Bran invites her to stay for another two - if she'll admit to her desires and submit to him.  Although she refuses at first, Bethany decides she has nothing to gain by continuing to be the good girl.  Originally appearing on the k!meme as two fills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Liaison

It was so rare that anything was a win-win negotiation, which was one reason that Seneschal Bran counted the Circle Liaison program among his most notable accomplishments. It provided a way for mages of the Circle to get out for a bit and see how Kirkwall was governed, which the First Enchanter counted as a win. It provided Viscount Dumar with good and accurate information and advice on things magical, which the Viscount appreciated. It made the Knight Commander look slightly less like a tyrant and somewhat more like a benevolent protector, which he was sure she appreciated. And it gave _him_ oversight of a continuous stream of mages, each on leave from the Gallows for two weeks at a time... unless he requested that Orsino extend their billet.

He tried to be broad-minded about it. They had to be intelligent enough, naturally, to do the job, or else the viscount would disapprove. But past that... young or mature, male or female, thick or thin - what _mattered_ was a predilection he’d become rather good at sniffing out, a desire for ecstatic surrender and submission.

He hadn’t expected to scent it on Bethany Hawke, of all people. The guardsmen told stories about the carnage the Hawke sisters wrought in Lowtown over the past year, before Leandra Amell (he still couldn’t think of her as anything else) reclaimed her familial estate. A ferocious Ferelden apostate who’d battled darkspawn and Coterie thugs and Maker knew what else, they said, before her arrest. Her sister was... pugnacious, and Bran had assumed she would be as well. But he’d watched her carefully, and had Guard Brennan ask a few ribald questions that he, for appearances’ sake, should not, and the answers that came back sparked his desire.

Isabela had spoken of her, sometimes. Innocent but curious. Untouched. Perhaps no longer the case after some time in the Circle, what between the rumors of profligate magi and predatory templars, but a man could hope. It would be a perfect grace note to the seduction of a woman younger than his son.

...what would _not_ be perfect would be grievous bodily harm, wrought either by her older sister, by Isabela (who seemed fond of her), the new guard captain (a family friend), or by the mage herself. An explicit _understanding_ would have to be reached.

“Mage Bethany,” he said formally, lifting his eyes from the paper in front of him. She sat on the other side of his desk, elegant and collected, hands resting in her lap. “The viscount and by extension the city of Kirkwall thank you for your service these past two weeks.”

“I was glad to help,” she replied with a slight dip of her head.

“Would you care to continue to help?” he asked, with only the barest hint of interest in his voice.

“Continue?” she echoed. “The First Enchanter said the posting rotated through the mages every two weeks. I will not be eligible again for some time.”

He stared at her for a long, silent moment, until he saw color rising in her cheeks. Purposefully, he pushed his chair back and stood, circling the desk, watching carefully.

If she stood to challenge him, he would say no more. If she reached for her staff, or glared hatefully, or even craned her neck to track him in simple curiosity, he would let the matter go without another word.

She tracked him with her eyes til he moved behind her, then she looked down at her lap.

_Perfect._

He rested his hands on the back of her chair so that they wouldn’t shake. He was _capable_ of subtle invitations, but that wasn’t what the situation called for - if he’d called it right. If he hadn’t... the _best_ he could hope for were stern lectures and an official reprimand. Bran was risk-averse by nature, habitually avoiding the uncertainty of change in favor of the known quantities of the status quo. Looking down, he saw the soft dark waves of her hair and the pert swell of her young breasts, and steeled himself to make the leap. “The First Enchanter can modify the roster... if I request it,” he said, letting his usually level voice drop, just slightly.

Her hands twisted in her lap, but she still didn’t try to turn to face him. “Well, if I did a good job and the viscount would like me to stay on, I would be glad to -- ”

He leaned down suddenly to put his mouth by her ear. “You. In my bed. Over my desk, against the wall, and wherever else I feel like taking you.”

He heard her inhale sharply, and there was the briefest of pauses before she turned to meet his eyes, only a handsbreadth away. Her chin tilted up defiantly. “That is an _obscene_ suggestion, serah!”

_But you didn’t say ‘no,’_ , he noted. “Quite,” he said aloud. “And you’re a very sweet and proper girl, aren’t you? You couldn’t _possibly_ disappoint your mother with _untoward_ behavior. You _never_ ,” and he leaned forward until she leaned back, then fetched up against the encircling arm of the chair, “wonder what it would be like, if despite your virtuous protests, someone pulled up those silken skirts of your and -- ”

“Stop!” she cried, trembling.

So he did. Straightening up, he looked past her to the wall and sighed. “I suppose you were hoping for someone younger and broader of chest? A templar, perhaps?” He glanced down at her, still half-huddled in her chair, staff untouched on the floor. “I assure you, I’m more than big enough to put _you_ over my knee, young lady.”

Her breath caught and her eyes went wide a moment before she caught herself. She stood indignantly, snatching up her staff. “I think this is done,” she snapped. “You’re... you’re vile.”

“Maybe not such a good girl after all,” he mused as she stomped toward the door. “Maybe a very naughty girl... who has two days to consider my proposal.”

“I’ll _consider_ reporting this to the First Enchanter _and_ the Knight Commander!” Bethany threatened, before yanking the door open and storming out.

“You’ll consider it,” Bran said to the empty room, “but you won’t.”

\-------------------------- 

Maker’s breath, it was creepy and offensive and eighteen kinds of inappropriate and possibly two of illegal, so why couldn’t she stop thinking about it?

Bethany stared unseeing past the four walls of her neat stone cell in the Gallows. She really _didn’t_ mind it here, not most of the time. She wasn’t so desperate to escape that she’d prostitute herself, certainly.

She almost wished she was. Then she could use it as an excuse to _sweet Andraste_ what was she thinking?

_The same things you think most nights when you think everyone’s asleep,_ she admitted to herself.

But that was fantasy! In her own head! Safe and secret and -

\- _and **boring.** You’re in the Circle, there’s no more secrets to keep now. No more worries about drawing attention, or someone learning too much. No chance of settling down and giving Mother grandchildren, so she’s going to be disappointed there **anyway**. Nobody here cares what you do, as long as it’s not blood magic. So... why not?_

Creepy, offensive and inappropriate? Hello! What kind of girl would she be if she said ‘yes’ to a proposal like that?

_One having better orgasms than you are now? Or is the plan just to rub off to the books Isabela sends for the rest of your life?_

\-------------------------- 

The small card of parchment came via runner from the Gallows. On one side was a mark he recognized as the sigil of Bethany Hawke. On the other, a single word, printed so square and crisp and neat that the letters might have been templars lined up for inspection. 

“Yes.”

He sent the runner back with a request to the First Enchanter to extend Mage Bethany’s appointment another two weeks.

\-------------------------- 

Bethany hardly slept at all the night before, wondering endlessly about _what_ and _how_ and _when_. She was on fire with anticipation when she reported to the seneschal’s office in the morning, half-expecting an immediate carnal welcome. 

Instead, Bran barely glanced at her, in between giving instructions to two guardsmen and a trio of elves. “...in the throne room. That’s the only proper place for it. Caella, hold a moment.” One elf stayed while the other four filed out past her. Bran caught her eye, all formal business. “The Arishok is sending an entourage for a meeting with the viscount. He wants you there, but you cannot be in Circle robes.”

“The qunari mislike falsehoods,” Bethany said slowly.

“They mislike magi more.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Just don’t _do_ any magic and they won’t know. Here,” he lifted a package from his desk and handed it to the elven matron. “Caella will help you dress. It’s one of your own from your mother’s house, so it ought to fit.”

“I... very well, seneschal. Thank you,” Bethany said, slightly confused by the... well, the _normalcy_ of it. Just another day at the Keep. Well, it stood to reason, didn’t it? Life went on and business had to be conducted. “But I don’t need any help.”

He stared at her for just a heartbeat too long, and she felt her cheeks color. Maybe it wasn’t so normal after all? “Chain would not _do_ for a diplomatic reception,” he said, slowly and precisely. “Some changes were made.”

“Yes, messere,” she mumbled automatically, and she saw his lip barely curve with approval. “This way,” Caella beckoned, leading her out to one of the small side rooms of the Keep.

Opening the package, she saw with some surprise that this was _not_ one of her dresses, fetched from her mother’s. Which made a certain amount of sense, considering that her dresses had been those of a Ferelden refugee scraping by in Lowtown, not a member of the viscount’s court. It _recalled_ one of her old gowns, though. 

Caella insisted on helping her into the silken undergown, a white shift that was finer than anything she’d worn in her life. Like her old sturdy linen, it laced up the front, only this was so, so much more delicate. She thought she could almost see freckles through the fabric, and wondered at the propriety.

An overskirt in a rich burgundy was almost the color of her old favorite scarf. That covered her legs decently, but surely there was no way she was going to go into court with her bosoms practically on full view?

No. Instead of her old chain stomacher, there was a brocaded corset, fitting her from hipbone to underarm. Caella laced her into it, first loosely, then snugly. She paused to come around to the front and critically poke and shift Bethany’s breasts until they were positioned to her liking, the nipples under the fine shift just hidden by the corset, then returned to the back and hauled on the laces until the mage’s eyes watered.

Maker help her, her eyes weren’t the only things getting wet. 

Caella tied the laces off and cut the ends; tucking them in would create an unsightly bulge, and new laces for each wearing would be a small expense for a noblewoman. If the corset came off now, there was no way she was getting it back on without a new set. “Now messere is fit for court with the qunari,” she pronounced, a slight Orlesian accent coloring her words. “The look is flattering, yes? But it needs... something... ah!” And, rummaging in the remains of the wrapping, she produced a silk scarf to knot around Bethany’s neck. “A splash of color by your face, yes, that is it. Marvelous! Messere is pleased?” she asked anxiously.

“It’s... beautiful, thank you,” she managed, learning to breathe again. Rather than press her stomach out, she had to lift her chest up to take a breath. _This must be those ‘heaving bosoms’ Isabela’s books always mention..._

Caella hurried off, other chores to accomplish before the qunari representatives arrived. Bethany lingered a brief moment, looking down at her decolletage. It was... much more impressive-looking, this way. And... and sort of _presented_ for viewing, even as the gown obscured it in a silken fog. 

But there were qunari coming. Heart pounding, Bethany made her way back to Bran’s office, trying to act normally.

Bran certainly was. Bustling about his office, he stopped when she came in. He raked his eyes over her in one quick glance, nodded, and indicated a stack of books. “Get those,” he said, “and follow me.”

The spines indicated they were volumes of military strategy and philosophies of good diplomacy. “What are these for?” she asked, turning round. He was already at the door and beckoned impatiently; she snatched up the stack and hurried after. 

“Sending a message,” he replied as he strode briskly toward the viscount’s throne room. “The qunari will report on everything they see here; we will let them see that the viscount is considering all his options.”

“Is he?” Bethany asked, surprised. She had thought Dumar didn’t _have_ the ability to fight the qunari. 

Guards flanked the double doors to the throne room. Bran stepped ahead to push the door open for her, since her arms were full of books. “As far as they know,” he said, just a trifle smugly, as she went past him.

_**Maker** , but he’s an arrogant fool if he thinks the Arishok is going to be tricked by-- !_

Books thudded to the thick red carpet as Bran caught her upper arm and pulled. She stumbled and turned, back fetching up against one of the great stone columns on the lowest level of the throne room. He followed closely, pinning her with his weight while his other hand covered her mouth, muffling her startled cry.

The door, slowly closing on its own, clicked shut.

“Now _what_ have we _here?_ ” He said it quietly but directly into her ear. Tipping her head away, she slammed it back at him, a trick she’d seen Isabela do more than once.

_Thonk!_ She had the satisfaction of hearing Bran grunt in pain, put he only leaned into her more tightly... _and_ now her own head hurt. He removed his hand from her mouth to twist it into the scarf around her neck, pulling it tight. “No more of that,” he said, tightening his grip subtly, “or I might become cross with you.” He dropped the hand on her arm down, skating over the corset to the swell of her hips, where he began to ruck up the fabric.

She got her own hands up and tried pushing at him, which earned her only a dark chuckle. She could _feel_ him pressed up against her thigh, a great hard lump that left no mistaking his intentions. “What -- what are you _thinking?_ ” she asked, breathless from the constriction around her throat. “People will be coming, getting ready for the qunari...”

He bit her earlobe, not too hard. “I won’t be a minute.”

“I’ll scream.”

“Oh, do,” he invited her, practically purring as he started to fumble with his own clothing. “I’d love for them to come in and see you, sweet red lips, flushed wantonly as you are... whatever will they think, mm?”

She stared at the door over his shoulder. Maker, what if someone _did_ come in? Or the guards heard? “Please, not here, ser,” she implored, and coughed; he eased up somewhat on the scarf. “I’m, I’m a maiden, it wouldn’t be right - ”

“Oh, so you _are_.” He paused, and her skirts suddenly fell back to the floor. “You’re correct,” he said so smoothly she knew something was wrong. “That _wouldn’t_ be right. I should take my _time_ with that.” He pulled back far enough to look down into her face. “You’re in Kirkwall, not Denerim. It’s ‘messere,’ not ‘ser.’”

“Yes, messere,” she dipped her head, bosoms well and truly heaving now. “Please, messere, let me put the books up by the throne and - ”

“All in good time,” he said easily, letting go of the scarf entirely. Both hands drifted lightly over the pale silk covering her breasts and then, abruptly, his fingers dipped down into the corset and lifted her expertly out of it. “All in good time.”

“No, messere, please don’t... _ah._ ” His two thumbs brushed over her nipples, already pebble-hard. She touched them herself sometimes, when she was alone, but it never felt _that_ good. 

“Please don’t what?” he asked idly, gently kneading her in either hand.

“Please, don’t touch me like _ohhh_.” He interrupted her with another thumbstroke across each nub. Of her own accord, her back arched into his palms when they began to rub the thin fabric of her top in small circles.

“You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid,” he said. “Like this?” He rolled either nipple between thumb and finger, and she turned her face aside to bite her finger. “Like this?” He pinched, and she bucked into him from the jolt of it, a small squeak escaping. Then he rubbed more gently again, and her finger didn’t quite stifle her moan.

“You’re not being very helpful,” he scolded her quietly. “Do I have to keep guessing?” He suddenly stopped touching her, and Bethany looked over to see him pulling the laces of her gown apart, pushing the fine fabric to either side to bare her pale skin to the air. “Maybe it’s this that I should stop,” he mused, rubbing her again, skin to skin. 

She stiffened and shut her eyes, jaw clenched shut against any noise. She was on _fire_ and her smalls were _soaked_ and it just couldn’t possibly feel any better than -

\- Bran braced his hands on her upper arms, keeping her back against the column, and stepped away from her, leaning forward. It put his head lower, low enough to -

Bethany’s cry echoed in the great empty hall. Lips and tongue and the graze of teeth, first on one side, then the other, teasing the sensitive flesh with long, languid strokes and then rapid-fire, light touches. She twisted to and fro, not in an effort to get away, but to press forward, into that skilled mouth, that was quickly building a crescendo of desire in her. Door all but forgotten, she was no longer sure how long they had been alone in the room, but she didn’t want the attention to stop.

Then he bit her, a hard nip that hurt even as it shot sparks down to her belly. She yelped and he surged up, flattening her against the column as he kissed her roughly, tongue plundering her mouth as she whimpered into him.

There was a _’crack’_ , a small sharp sound, and he instantly grabbed her and bore her to the floor behind the column, laying there atop her with a hand on her mouth again.

She could hear the door open and then a familiar pained sigh. “Who left this mess?” Guard Captain Aveline grumbled. Bethany could hear the sounds of books being picked up, stacked in her arms.

Her eyes went wide in surprise and dread as Bran’s hand shifted til it was again on her breast. Finding a nipple, he pinched it, firmly, and then cruelly hard - and did not let go.

She bit her lips together, straining silently, until he slowly dragged his other hand away from her mouth. She stared up into his yellow eyes, which finally showed an emotion other than boredom, and mutely shook her head, silently pleading.

His lips half-curled in amusement before he bent to muffle her with his mouth, and then he pinched the _other_ nipple.

Bethany squeaked, back arching entirely off the stone floor. He drank the tiny sound in, humming lowly in the back of his throat in approval. A dozen feet away, the grumbling and clanking continued as Aveline gathered the books. Bethany, her breath coming in short, jerky inhalations, prayed and prayed that the armor was noisy enough to cover over the small gasps and cries she was increasingly unable to contain.

“On the bench, I suppose,” Aveline muttered, stalking back toward the door. Bethany dimly recalled that there were benches there, for petitioners to sit upon while awaiting the viscount. There was the solid _thunk_ of the stack of books landing on the bench, and then the door creaked open again.

It was still closing when Bran twitched his fingers, twisting both her nipples in his vise-like hold.

She cried out in full voice, a half-second after the door had shut.

Aveline’s intrusion seemed to signal something, maybe a checkpoint on a schedule Bethany didn’t know, but Bran was suddenly in a hurry. He slid a tiny glass ampule out of his doublet and snapped it open, tossing the top aside. Bethany heard the glass skitter over stone and finally clatter in a corner as he upended the tube, dripping body-warmed oil over her exposed skin. “Get the scarf off,” he ordered her, a touch of hunger in his usually even voice. Not understanding why, she hurried to obey, fingers teasing the knot loose as he tossed the empty vial toward the corner.

He pulled himself up to his knees, straddling her torso. He’d started to unfasten his trousers earlier, and now he quickly finished the job, pushing them down around his hips. Bethany tried not to stare at the thick, stiff member he took in one hand and pressed to her breastbone, using it to clumsily spread the oil.

Bethany pulled her scarf free of her neck, and Bran snatched it away, dropping it beside him. “Push them together,” he said, steadying himself with one hand on the pillar as the other held him to her chest.

“Push... these?” Bethany asked, confused, pressing her breasts together around her.

_”Hnnng,”_ Bran replied, thrusting into the channel she’d created. “We may only be good for one thing, but... _ah_... there’s _so many_ ways to do it...”

Bethany gasped, although this time from simple surprise at hearing Bran echo Isabela’s bawdy lesson. But the sound affected the seneschal, who took his hand from his cock to squeeze and rub her breast instead. She moaned, glad to have the touch again, and wanting something else, something _more_ , like her hand between her legs, or...

Bran stuttered and grunted, slamming forward hard enough to shove her breasts and hands another inch or two toward her head. Then he _growled_ in the back of his throat, and Bethany felt something warm and wet splash over her sternum.

For three panting breaths, he stared down at her, and she up at him. “Fetching as that is, it’s not the look for court,” he said finally, reaching for her scarf. He folded it, wiped himself off of her, then folded it a different way to hide the stain. Then he leaned down to re-fasten it around her neck. “To give you something to think about in court,” he said, again in her ear.

“What... are we...” _That’s it, we’re done?!_

“Put yourself back in your dress, serah,” he replied tartly, standing to re-fasten his breeches. “The qunari will be here shortly.”

Bethany got to her feet, swaying, feeling flushed and strange. She was indignant, that he’d just _use_ her like that on the floor of the keep and leave her wanting... but there was an impossible thrill of lust from exactly the same. And the smug bastard knew it, somehow. She’d thought of him as just _old_ at first, but she wondered if maybe _experienced_ had something to do with it.

“Serah, your _clothes_ ,” he called to her over his shoulder, picking up the stack of books from the bench where Aveline had left them. Bethany shook herself, smoothed her hair, and did her best to tuck herself back into the corset, lacing up the front of the gown once everything was back in place. 

She was scarcely done when the doors opened again, revealing Viscount Dumar and an entourage of guards and servants. Bran was at his elbow in a moment, reminding him about current events that impacted the qunari, what little they understood about etiquette in dealing with the giants, and so on.

Bethany fell in with the rest of the entourage, waiting quietly until the viscount should need her counsel, and feeling the warm dampness wrapped like a collar ‘round her neck.


	2. Chapter 2

Bethany kept the scarf.

She _washed_ it, of course, rinsing it out well in her basin back at the Gallows that night, because it got a bit stiff and crusty when it dried, and that was just sort of... unaesthetic. Undressed for bed, she held the damp thing to her throat and admired her reflection in the mirror. Taking both ends in one hand, she pulled it just a little tight, remembering the way he’d tangled his hand in it to half-choke her and --

Half-choke her? Maker’s breath, he really had, hadn’t he? She’d killed darkspawn and bandits and vicious tal’vashoth, and she let a middle-aged _bureaucrat_ pin her to the wall and, and, and _why_ was she getting wet just _thinking_ about it?

This couldn’t be right. Maybe she should go to the Chantry, confess to someone, like Sebastian, who’d tell her what a naughty little harlot she’d been and for penance, make her get down on her knees and _holy Andraste_ she had to stop thinking these _things!_

But later, in bed, she was back in the viscount’s throne room, and the silk scarf she caressed her breasts with was that fine chemise, and her fingers were rough and ungentle as she rubbed herself to completion.

And in the morning, she donned her Circle robes... and the scarf.

\-------------

Bran noticed. She saw his eyes flicker down to her neck briefly, saw a light spark there before he handed her a ledger and blandly directed her to a desk. “These are expenditures made by the city on the behalf of the Circle,” he said. “Look them over and report anything that seems... off. Can you do sums?” 

“I’m hardly a Korcari hedge witch, messere,” she demurred, taking a seat at the desk. “My father _was_ a mage of the Circle.”

“And so I should have thought that he would have taught you to answer simple questions,” Bran replied dryly. “Can you do sums?”

Bethany sighed. “ _Yes_ , seneschal,” she said, in a truculent, adolescent tone she hadn’t used on her own mother in years.

“Well, aren’t you _clever_.” She supposed the sarcasm meant he was at least a little displeased, and she shivered to think what that might mean, now or later. But he simply leaned over her shoulder to open the ledger and flipped a few pages; Bethany held very still and tried not to be so aware of the heat of his body or even the scent of him. “Begin _here_ ,” he said, and turned some more pages, “and finish _here_. By supper, if you would; there’s another task that needs your attention this evening.”

Bethany regarded the pages and pages of columns with some dismay. “Very well,” she said, nodding with all due propriety.

The day was mostly disappointingly boring. She reviewed entries and summed numbers as Bran came and went, arguing with Aveline over her budget, soothing an agitated Comte de Launcet, and scratching out many, many letters. The sun was lowering when he finally tossed his pen down and stretched, then reached for a lamp. “Are you finished, Bethany?” he asked, rising to light a taper from the hearth.

“Nnnot quite,” she said, quickly marking down her running total before she said anything else and forgot it. “There’s about another page and a half.” She frowned at the lamp, and the wick burst into flame.

Bran paused, then wordlessly extinguished the taper. “Any irregularities?”

“None that I can see so far. But I’m not very experienced with the sorts of things the Gallows would need, nor what it would cost.”

He pursed his lips, returned to his seat and opened a drawer, lifting out a board with a bit of cheese on it. “Get down to the kitchens and get yourself something to eat. Then wait for me by the guard barracks.”

She inclined her head. “Messere,” she said, wondering why she’d be needed _there_.

First night watch had already headed out; the day guard had retired to their bunks. The second night watch was up and around, eating their sunset breakfasts and chatting quietly. Bethany glanced a bit anxiously at the Guard Captain’s office door, wondering if Aveline was in, and if so, if she was awake...

“You stayed on!” The short blonde woman who’d been so friendly - Brennan, Bethany remembered - pointed at her with a porridge-covered spoon. “Knew you would.”

“Oh! Yes, I... wait, you knew I was asked to stay for another rotation?” Bethany couldn’t thing of a single reason why a guard should know that, unless... had Bran lied about... “Do they ask _all_ the mages if they want to stay on?”

“No,” Brennan chuckled, setting her bowl and spoon down and coming closer to slip a confidential arm around Bethany’s shoulders. “Just the ones Bran _likes_ ,” she said in an undertone.

“Yes, he said I did a very good job,” Bethany said, a little louder than was strictly necessary. “I expect he did like that.”

“Oh, you’re going to play it coy? Cute,” Brennan smirked. “I hope I get to join in before you go; you’re a very pretty little thing, do you know that?”

Bethany flushed and tried to shrug the guard’s arm off, muttering something about inappropriate nonsense, but the warrior wasn’t going to be budged. Her grip around Bethany’s shoulders tightened. “One more thing, just a fair warning,” she said, voice dropping even lower and softer. “Don’t be so helpful that you go healing any bruises or marks he’s got. I’ll just do them over again, and give you ones to match. Got it?” She leaned back abruptly with a big grin, clapped the young mage on the shoulder, and moved back across the room to get her breakfast.

Bethany was still pretending to read the duty roster when the door swung open to admit the seneschal. “What company tonight,” Brennan drawled, drawing the attention of several loitering guards. “The seneschal and the Circle liaison. Are we up for inspection, messere?”

“I’m quite sure your captain will be handling your inspections. In excruciating detail,” Bran sighed. Bethany covered a smile with her hand but had to privately agree; Aveline was, well, _detail-oriented._ “Mage Bethany is going to verify some of your holding procedures.”

“I thought the Circle had approved them all, messere?” another guard asked, brow furrowed. There was a murmur of agreement; with Kirkwall’s unique problems, the guard didn’t always know when they’d apprehended an apostate mage. If they did, they’d call the templars, no question. But nobody wanted to be the one on-duty when a fireball suddenly tore through the holding cells.

“They did,” Bran answered smoothly, inclining his head. “But Mage Bethany was herself an apostate until quite recently, and perhaps will know some tricks the Circle has not anticipated. Unless you’re all entirely confident in your current process...?”

“Can’t hurt to check it out again,” the guard admitted, and he gave Bethany a little half-bow. “Thank you for your help, serah.”

Bethany, almost lost in the visions of stone walls, iron chains, and heavy manacles that the words ‘holding procedures’ had conjured up, nearly missed it. She shook herself, smiled hastily and said, “I’m pleased to assist the Guard Captain.”

“Did you need a guardsman to walk you through the process, seneschal?” Brennan asked, coolly polite.

“You’re not on-duty yet,” Bran waved the suggestion away. “And I do not have the funds for additional hours.” He managed to sound slightly regretful about it; Bethany wondered if he was just putting on a show, or if he really _would_ want her to come along. “If any questions or concerns are raised, I’ll be sure to refer them to you, Guardsman. Enjoy your...” He peered distastefully at her bowl and raised an eyebrow. “Breakfast.” With a curt jerk of his head, he indicated that Bethany should follow him, past the supply room and down the stairs.

“They don’t bring prisoners in this way, do they?” she asked as they descended, the way lit by rough oil lamps, high by the ceiling.

“It would hardly be appropriate to parade them through the Keep’s main hall, no,” Bran replied. “This way is for the guards’ convenience.”

“Oh.” Her slippered feet pattered down a half-dozen more steps before she blurted out, “Does Guard Brennan _really_ give you bruises?”

He neither slowed nor looked behind at her. “She does.”

Bethany tried to fit that together with events in the throne room yesterday and couldn’t make it work. “Why would you - ”

Then he _did_ stop, so abruptly she almost ran into him. He turned on the stair and fixed her with a hooded stare as he slowly crowded her back against the wall. “I’m... That was out of line, I suppose,” Bethany stammered, apprehension and something warmer coiling in her belly.

He took her chin in one hand and turned her face to one side, not violently but firmly. She heard a soft rustle and felt a finger hook in her scarf, tugging it down her neck. The cool air of the passageway hit the exposed skin, and she suppressed a shiver. “What... what are you...”

A warm breath ghosted across her neck, then his head dipped, and he was _biting_ her. Bethany cried out in surprise and some pain; it wasn’t the savage, flesh-rending bite of a demon-possessed skeleton, but it wasn’t a mabari pup’s playful nip, either. She put her hands on his shoulders to push on instinct, but then initial shock gave way to growing excitement. She suddenly wasn’t sure if she was feeling pain or pleasure, but it was _intense_ and intensity was right then the best thing in the world. She felt his teeth press incrementally harder, and she whimpered as the additional pressure shot sparks down her spine. Then, just as it was starting to ache in earnest, he released her, lingering to lave his tongue over the spot he’d bitten.

When he raised his head, it was to put his mouth by her ear. “That will leave a mark. You won’t want to parade it around the Keep, so you’ll cover it with collar.” He tugged lightly on the burgundy silk.

“It’s a scarf,” she protested weakly.

“I _know_ what it _is_ , apparently better than you,” he replied, tolerantly amused. “And every time you notice that you’re wearing it, you’ll remember _why_ , _this_ moment, how you feel right now, and _who_ made you feel it.” He leaned back and stepped carefully away on the uneven stairs, tugging his doublet straight. “That’s why.”

Bethany swallowed thickly and gaped. “But... you...” She pointed. “The wall, the...” She plucked at the scarf. “I wouldn’t think...”

“What can I say?” He shrugged and headed down the stairs again. “I am a man of cosmopolitan tastes. Now come along, we have things to do.”

The dungeons under the Keep were extensive. The largest cells, meant for holding drunks and vagrants and petty thieves, were located entirely on the other side of the building, near a well-guarded side entrance. Bethany supposed one must be able to get to there from here, down one of the mostly dark corridors that honeycombed the stone. More dangerous criminals and political prisoners could be secreted down any of them.

She was finally hearing the sounds of armor and angry shouts - the general holding cells, it must be - and wondered if this really _was_ just another task to finish. She tugged her scarf back up to cover whatever was on her neck now, but Bran turned right down a short corridor before they came to the lockup itself. Removing the closest lamp from its perch, he unlocked and opened a door and ushered her through it.

She couldn’t see much in the dim light, although she could hear Bran throw a bolt behind her. Then the shadows all shifted as he started to walk around the sides of the room, using the single lamp to light others already in place. As it slowly brightened, ominous shadows resolved themselves into even _more_ ominous realities: large wooden frames with manacles, a selection of whips and flogs hanging on the wall, bars from floor to ceiling that marked off a cell, something that looked like a mabari kennel, two large tables, and dark, low chests along one wall. A bookshelf held some collection of small items she couldn’t make out from here, as well as several bottles and some glasses. Chains dangled from the walls and certain points on the ceiling.

Bethany gaped openly. “What... what is this? Does the viscount have prisoners tortured?”

“Occasionally,” Bran admitted. “If the situation warrants. But those are other rooms entirely.” He set the lamp down on the bookshelf and turned to regard her closely. “Is it true that Circle robes are enchanted to augment a mage’s power?”

“Uh... yes?” The sudden change of subject didn’t make immediate sense.

“As I thought.” He took a small bundle off the bookcase and presented it to her; shaking it out, she found it was a plain linen shift. “The pickpockets and prostitutes who end up in the lock-up are rarely so richly clothed,” he explained, deadpan. “If you would change? We want this to be a true test.”

“...All right,” Bethany agreed. She was _pretty_ sure this was just a pretext, because she could easily _tell_ him what would keep a mage, any mage, from casting spells. But if it was a game, she could play. She looked around, then asked, “Where?”

Bran just cocked an eyebrow in reply.

Bethany sighed, rolled her eyes, and turned her back on him. “What a truculent child,” she heard him murmur disapprovingly behind her, as she tugged the fastenings on her robe open.

“I’m _not_ ,” she said, shrugging the robe off so that it pooled around her feet, “a _child_.”

There was an appreciative pause as she pulled the shift over her head. “No. I suppose not,” Bran said. She turned around to see him thoughtfully fingering the topmost clasp on his own doublet. He dropped it to gesture idly at her. “Now, you can cast any spell you like, is that right? No staff is necessary.”

“That’s right,” Bethany confirmed.

He half-turned to pull a set of manacles from the shelf behind him. “And in these?”

She crossed her arms. “There would still be a few things I could do. Not all spells require large arm movements.”

“Also as we were told.” He put the manacles back on the shelf and picked up something else. “Your hands, if you please, serah.”

She held them out and watched as he worked her unresisting fingers into something that resembled one of Aveline’s gauntlets, if all the finger joints had been riveted in place. First one hand, then the other, linked by a fairly generous length of chain. She looked down at them, hefting their weight experimentally. They were cupped as if to scoop a handful of water from a pond. “Will that do?” the seneschal asked.

Bethany mentally ran through her spells. “I can’t speak for every mage everywhere,” she said slowly, “but... mine require at least pointing, sometimes more complex gestures, or else touch. So... yes, if you put these on a prisoner, I would think the guards would be safe if he were secretly a maleficar.”

His heavy-lidded eyes flicked up and down her form. “So you are, then... helpless?”

The question shot lust and indignation both through her. “I wouldn’t say _that_ ,” she retorted. _What would Marian do?_ Holding both hands together, she stepped forward and swung them at his side.

To her surprise, he moved. Not quite enough that she missed entirely; she could feel the gauntlets catch on the embroidery of his doublet, hear the threads tear and snap. Overbalanced from the awkward swing - because she was _not_ her sister, and her role in their many battles involved staff work when it was physical at all - she toppled sideways when he shouldered into her, fetching up against one of the tables. She didn’t quite have her balance yet when a hand on the back of her neck pushed her down, bending her over it.

“One does not spend as many nights in the Blooming Rose as I have and not learned _something_ about fisticuffs. Or at least how to avoid them,” Bran said, his sense of smug slightly marred by a little breathlessness. “Now, I believe I asked you a question.” She squirmed, panting, but said nothing.

“Very well, then.” He wrapped his hand in her hair and pulled her upright, other forearm quickly coming up under her chin. When she tried to claw or beat at his arm with the rigid gauntlets, he simply let go her hair and took hold of the chain instead, pulling her arms down. She half-whined, half-growled as he steered her toward a wall, where a chain and hook dangled. A few moments’ work and her gauntlets were secured and hoisted up until she had to come slightly off her heels to keep her weight off her wrists.

Bran leaned momentarily against the crank he’d been employing, evidently enjoying the view. Pushing off, he began removing his damaged doublet. “Such a willful little creature,” he said, shaking his head. “And a disobedient one. What did your father do when you acted so?”

She couldn’t really shrug. “I had to do Marian’s spinning as well as my own. I hated spinning, it’s boring.”

“Spinning.” He sounded unimpressed as he peered at the torn embroidery. “Never the flat of his hand or the slap of his belt, hm? Of course not.” He tossed the doublet on the table and leaned back on it, looking her over again. “Not for Bethany, who’s such a _good girl_.” The words dripped mockery, and she shivered. “Intransigent, stubborn, and impulsive. An Amell for certain,” he murmured, and crossed the room to where the row of whips and flogs hung.

Her eyes widened as he handled first one, then another, glancing her way to gauge her reactions. “Are you serious?” she finally asked as he hefted something she’d have expected to see on Isabela’s ship.

“Did you think you could take a _swing_ at me and I would let it pass unnoticed?” he answered her, setting the cat aside. At length, he chose what looked like a fistful of twigs, ends splayed out like bony fingers. “It is best to begin at the beginning,” he nodded. “Naughty girls get the birch.”

“Turn around,” he instructed her. She did, managing to suppress another roll of her eyes. This was a children’s punishment, wasn’t it? She’d been in _real_ fights, taken real wounds. She was sure she could handle --

She jumped slightly, bobbling on her toes, when she felt fingers brush the nape of her neck. There was a long, loud _rrrrrrip!_ as the flimsy shift was rent from neck to hem. She half-laughed. “Did you really make me wear that just so you could -- ow!” The first stinging blow caught her by surprise. Pressing her lips together, she resolved to stay quiet.

It wasn’t so hard, at first. The blows came at a measured pace, letting her catch her breath in between. letting the sting fade to a warm glow that was... surprisingly nice. She leaned lightly into the wall in front of her, letting the warmth spread from her backside to her groin. Why, she could stay like this all night...

Then the blows began to fall in earnest, sharper and faster, so that sting piled on sting and turned to eye-watering pain. She whimpered involuntarily, swallowed the sound and pressed her eyes tight shut. She flinched away, twisting in the restraints, and that earned her a firm arm between her shoulderblades, pressing her solidly into the wall, as the blows continued to rain down.

She jerked in place, biting her lip harder as her bottom began to feel as if it were on fire. Finally, when she knew she’d start sobbing in earnest in a few moments, she cried out, “Stop!”

Bran didn’t. “Do you intend,” he asked, slightly out of breath, “to somehow _make_ me stop?”

 _I’ll tell Marian._ Right there, three simple words, and she had no doubt at all that _everything_ would come to a halt.

But she didn’t want _everything_ to stop. She wanted to know, to feel what else would happen tonight, while she was bound and shackled and -- “Helpless!” she gasped, voice cracking. Another blow fell, but the birch remained lightly touching her bottom, dragging rough twigs over the blazing skin. “No, I can’t make you stop. I, I’m... I’m helpless.”

The birch clattered to the floor and Bran pressed close behind her, the bare skin of his chest warm on her back. “There. Was that so hard?” he said softly into her ear, trailing fingers down her sides. “Now tell me you want me to fuck you.”

Bethany sucked in air, unaccountably scandalized by his language. Of course you heard that sort of thing in Lowtown, or by the templar barracks, but weren’t the upper classes supposed to be more _refined_ than that?

Taking her silence for defiance, he squeezed her reddened bottom until she gasped. “Say it,” he murmured insistently. His hand slipped around and up, and she butted her forehead into the wall when she felt his fingers carefully but insistently probing between her legs. “I know you want it. Just say it.”

Eyes closed, she shook her head. “No?” he asked, sounding slightly surprised. “After yesterday and now this evening... wait. What did you _do_ last night, when you were all alone, Mage Bethany?”

“I... touched myself,” she said, a bit shyly but without shame.

He noticed. “I thought _good_ girls didn’t do such... things,” he said, idly demonstrating the _thing_ in question with slow, gliding strokes of his fingers.

“Mother always said,” she panted, trying to keep her voice level, “it was better than letting a boy talk us into something we’d regret later.” She heard him inhale sharply and stop what he was doing. “What?”

“A moment, please. Just... a moment to envision Leandra Amell teaching her lovely daughters the arts of self-pleasure...”

“It wasn’t like _that!_ ” Bethany squawked, suddenly indignant.

“Like what?”

“Like... whatever you’re thinking of!”

“Mm.” Her back was suddenly cold as he stepped away. “And what were _you_ thinking of, last night?”

Oh, Maker, no, she was _not_ going to tell him that it had been their encounter in the throne room. The smugness would be unbearable. “Templars,” she lied quickly, because other nights, it _was_ templars. She tiptoed herself around to see what he was up to.

Bethany pulled reflexively on her shackles, healing energies pooling with battle-born speed, at the sight of a half-dozen or more angry red welts on the seneschal’s back. Brought up short by the chains and gauntlets, she blinked and let the mana ebb. “What’s... _those_ are Guard Brennan’s marks?”

“And I see you share your sister’s ability to state the obvious,” Bran sighed, stepping out of the trousers crumpled at his feet. He turned, naked, and Bethany’s eyes fell a little.

In the half-clothed rush yesterday, she hadn’t really gotten a long look at his member, just an impression of something hard and rounded sliding between her breasts. It looked... big, rising from a neat nest of red hair only a shade darker than the hair on his head. Granted, most of her experience with penises involved flaccid ones on men she was healing; an arrow to the thigh seemed to put any naughty thoughts _right_ out of their minds. And there was that one smuggler whom Athenril had told her she could hit with a bit of frost if he tried to show himself to her again. This was certainly bigger than that.

Oh Maker, she’d looked too long. The man was positively _preening_ now, smiling in a self-satisfied way as he leaned into her, pressing her back against the wall, pressing the hot length of him along the crease of her thigh. “But you were going to tell me about your templars. Templars, as in, more than one templar? How many is it?”

She tried to shrug again, willing herself to meet his gaze. “It depends.”

“It _depends?_ I thought we were speaking of last night. Are you _fibbing_ to me, dear girl?”

Bethany _did_ look away, trying to mask the slip with a coquettish smile. “It... depends on which time you mean. Last night.”

He shifted his weight back and off of her, opening up enough room between them to run his fingertips lightly down her torso. “I _see_. Well, the last time, then, if the earlier ones did not suffice.”

“The last time... two,” she said, with an air of certainty only somewhat marred by a slight shiver. “Two templars.”

“And what did these two templars do, mm?” Little curving arcs around her breasts _promised_ touches to her pebbled nipples, but failed to deliver.

“That’s... well, I’m sure you can imagine.” It was supposed to be an indignant huff, but it came out sounding more _impatient_.

“I’m not here to _imagine_ ,” Bran scoffed, stepping back suddenly. He stooped to pick up the fallen birch. “You were making the most lovely little noises before. Let’s have those again.”

“No, wait, no,” Bethany said apprehensively. Her bottom was still warm and sensitive; the stone wall felt gritty and rough behind her. She wasn’t at all eager to feel that birch again. “I’ll tell you if that’s what you want.” He watched her expectantly; she took a deep breath and looked at the floor, cheeks coloring. “I’m out in the countryside, gathering elfroot or something, it doesn’t really matter, and these two templars find me and accuse me of being an apostate. I deny it, of course, and say I’m just a country farm girl. And they say something like, I’m pretty and should serve the Chantry. But they don’t really mean as a lay sister, you know. See, it’s really a test - they’re threatening me to see if I use a spell against them. But I know that, so I don’t use any magic. I have to not cast anything, or else they’ll arrest me as an apostate. So they... take me.”

She stopped, ears burning, hoping the recitation was sufficient. Bran chuckled. “What a bloodless way to put it. Do they _take you_ gently, as a lover would?”

She shook her head minutely. “No. Not... not gently.”

“And is it both at once, or do they take turns?”

She looked up at that, surprise written all over her face. Both at _once?_ Would that even _fit?_ “Um. I don’t... um. One holds me, because even a farm girl is going to fight of course, and then the other...” She let her voice trail off, as it had already been said.

“The other _what_ , Bethany?” Bran leaned forward to take her chin in his hand, making her meet his half-lidded eyes. “Surely in your _fine_ education, you’ve learnt a better word than that pitiful euphemism you’re using.”

“The other one - ” Her voice faltered and she swallowed. Maker, it was so sodding _obvious_ what she meant; she knew it, he knew it, so why was it so hard to get the word out?

She remembered the welts on his back, the casual way he waved off his ‘cosmopolitan tastes,’ and abruptly decided that if he could let a common guardsman abuse him that way, and not be in the least ashamed of it, she could at least own up to things she’d thought of but never even done. She took a few breaths to steady herself, because it was still sticking in her throat and she wanted her voice to be as level as his for this. “The other one rapes me.”

There. She said it, and she said it without her voice breaking, even if she felt the inexplicable sting of tears in the corners of her eyes.

She expected a taunt or a bit of mockery, so she was surprised when Bran’s hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, and pulled her to him for a kiss. And - despite the way it stretched her arms uncomfortably - it was a soft and gentle thing, almost chaste. The unexpected tenderness undid something in her, and she felt the tears well up and spill down her cheeks.

He broke the kiss and let her lean back to a more comfortable pose, then untied the scarf that was still around her neck. “Very good, Bethany,” he said, dabbing her face with the red kerchief. “That was very well done.”

“Th-thank you?”

“It does present something of a conundrum, I’m afraid.” Bran skimmed the silk cloth down her neck, then along her collarbone. “As delightful as the thought of taking your maidenhead is, I am desirous of _more_. Specifically, I want your chastity. I want you to leave these thoughts of reluctant reticence behind and wantonly _beg_ for me to touch you. But...” He brushed the silk over one nipple, and then the other. “I am not insensible to your own long-held desires. I propose a simple contest: For the remainder of the week, do not touch yourself, unless I direct you to. Hold out that long and I’ll give you precisely what you want. But you can ask me, any time you like, to bend you over my desk and fuck you senseless.”

“That... doesn’t sound too hard. Boring, maybe.” The scarf made its way down her belly, then veered to slide down her right thigh.

“Did I leave out the part where I’ll continue to take my pleasure of your soft little body? Here I thought that would be understood.” The red silk curved around toward her middle and up, high up on her thigh, then slid away; Bran glanced down at it. “Not just wet but dripping, I see. Excellent.”

“I’m not an _animal_. Just because... _that_ , doesn’t mean I’m going to lose it.” Bethany tossed her hair in a way she hoped looked defiant.

Bran laughed. “And is this where I’m supposed to say that I like a girl with spirit? Maker’s breath, but I need to find you superior reading material.”

Without warning, he pushed her back, hard, into the wall. One hand squeezed greedily at her breast, the silk tangled in his fingers, while the other guided his length between her thighs. Slightly confused - hadn’t he just said he _wouldn’t_ be doing this? - but determined, Bethany kept her knees firmly together. “Give it up,” Bran growled. “You want it.” She just shook her head wordlessly.

He pinched her inner thigh, unexpectedly and sharply; she squeaked and flinched away. Not much, not the way she was restrained, but enough that he was able to seat himself against the length of her slit. “So hot. All for me?” he murmured, sliding back and forth against her.

“Aren’t you doing it wrong?” She tried for flippant disdain and thought she did it rather well, considering.

“On the contrary, this is a fine art practiced by the cheapest Darktown whores on clients too insensate to know the difference.” He shifted position slightly, back and forth until she stifled a mewling sound in the back of her throat; he’d found an angle that slid his member over her clit. He twisted her nipple, just hard _enough_ , and she gasped. “If you’re enjoying it, perhaps I should bring you down there, see if there are any takers...”

“You... wouldn’t.” Her hips kept trying to cant themselves to get _more friction_ where she wanted it, but that required her to put too much weight on her wrists. She danced in minute steps, small twists back and forth for a few seconds at a time.

“No, I suppose I wouldn’t. It wouldn’t do for you to _catch_ something, after all. But it’s a pretty fancy, isn’t it?” His thrusts were picking up speed, but it still wasn’t _enough_ to bring her close to the edge. “How many men do you think could take you in an hour, leaving your thighs slick with their spend? Six, eight anonymous faces, rubbing themselves on you til you’re sore but you still burn with _want_...”

Bethany whimpered, eyes closed, seeing the dirty Darktown walls with their crude scrawlings, feeling deliciously _trapped_ , still helpless, still unable to command her own pleasure. The stone wall was cold and rough on her flogged bottom, and the rough touches at her breast played counterpoint to the slide between her legs. It was a storm of sensation, and when Bran bit her again, right atop the earlier mark, her body whipped taut, arching hard into him, shackles be damned. She was rising, rising, and any moment one of these thrusts would tip her right... over... the...

Bran made a sound that was half groan, half growl into her neck; one, two, three snaps of his hips and he released with a shuddering sigh. Something wet and warm began to drip down the back of Bethany’s thigh, and the seneschal stepped back from her.

She just stared in outraged indignation as he moved to lower the chains holding her up. “That’s it? You’re done?”

He paused and raised an appraising eyebrow. “Are you asking for more?”

“I... that is... no. No. I just thought... you know, that it should last longer.”

“Oh, it can,” he said,altogether too smugly, as he finished lowering the chain. He unhooked her gauntlets, then carefully removed them. “Let’s see your hands... good. Here, sit.” He directed her to one of the chests in the room and helped her down, settling her robes about her shoulders before rubbing her arms, each in turn.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re far too pretty a toy to break, dear girl. This just gets the blood flowing to your _other_ parts again. I need to ensure that you’re fit for your work tomorrow.”

“Why? What’s my work tomorrow?”

Bran just smiled and tied the soiled kerchief back around her neck.


	3. Chapter 3

Bran gave the rope a final tug, snugging the knot into place. “That should do,” he said, turning Bethany back around.

She half-glowered up at him, exasperated, and tried to shift her arms where they were tied behind her back. “I can’t very well go around the palace with my robes half-off.”

“A shame,” he nodded in agreement. He lightly traced a line from the red silk at her neck, over the fetching line of her collarbone, then onto the lines of rope he’d wound around her. Two turns, then her fine, smooth breasts peeped out at him, pressed up from below by more windings of rope. He’d cinched it tight between them, ensuring that she’d feel well-squeezed. But to get to this point, he’d undone the top of her Circle robes, letting them fall loose from her waist, held up only by her belts. Even if he’d left her arms free, he doubted he could really send her out like that - the deformation would be obvious.

Happily, he did not intend to send her out. “Get under the desk.”

“What?”

He sighed and shook his head. He was not much disappointed in truth - the game was far more interesting when she persisted in her pretended defiance. But he had his own role to play. He reached out and grabbed a handful of her thick, soft hair and pulled her along. She squawked and stumbled, but with her arms behind her back, her choices were to move or to fall over.

He knelt down, bringing her with him, then crowded her back into the space under his very large, very solid desk. “Now, what have we for tethers... perhaps something taking advantage of the obvious?” He slid a carefully-concealed latch on one of his drawers aside, then opened it. A variety of useful items were stored within; he removed two small clamps and, after some thought, two lengths of cord. Even fine chains might be too loud for what he had in mind.

Bethany eyed the clamps suspiciously. “What are those?”

“It’s such a waste to have your breasts displayed so deliciously and not _do_ anything with them,” he said, giving each pebble-hard nipple a pinch before affixing the clamps.

“Yow-ow!” Bethany yelped with surprise at the unexpected pain. She shifted her shoulders on instinct, trying to pull away from the sensation; that only bounced the clamps. “Ah! I... I don’t think I like that!”

“Good,” he said, tying the two cords to the small rings affixed to the sides of the desk to her left and right. She settled down, the breath hissing out between her teeth growing more regular as the initial sting faded.

Then she saw what he was doing and stared. “You have... that kind of _stuff_ on your _desk?_ ”

“I spend much of my time here. It pays to have the room suitably equipped. Now, hold still...” It was just a moment to tie the free end of either string to the clamps themselves, pulling them til they loose but with little slack. She could wiggle around a bit, and lean forward or back, but she’d feel it.

The vixen was already testing the situation, swiveling at the waist to see how the lines tensioned. He left her there for a moment, pacing around to the front of the desk to check that everything looked innocent from that angle. He pulled the visitor’s chair up, checked that there were two cups alongside the pitcher of water on the desk, and that all of the materials for the upcoming meeting were at hand.

He would rather not have to get up unexpectedly.

“Now then,” Bran said, dropping into his own chair and pulling it in close, until his shins were brushing the tangle of robes around her waist. Sitting back in the chair, he could still look down and see her there. “These ‘fop pants,’ as you termed them this morning, are Antivan hose.” And fine Antivan hose they were, cut on the bias to give them some stretch and tailored to his legs. They showed off the calf marvelously, but were generally too ‘foreign’ for a Marcher lord to wear without some mockery. What was wrong with good southern trousers? “Do you know what makes hose different from trousers?”

“They’re tighter?” Bethany replied dubiously.

“They are,” he allowed. “So much tighter, in fact, that it’s impossible to stitch the two legs together and have them fit well.”

He watched her work this out in her head. “Then what keeps them up?”

“Have a look,” he invited, pulling the hem of his longer, Antivan-styled doublet (what else would you wear with Antivan hose?) up and out of the way. That would show the ties attached to the front and side of each leg, and how they were secured to a belt at the waist.

More importantly, though, it would show that he wasn’t wearing any smallclothes.

“I’m about to have a very disappointing meeting. I have to defend a fairly ridiculous position against a particularly stubborn noble, and I am reasonably certain that I am going to have to negotiate a position which will make the viscount unhappy. My _solace_ ,” he smiled down at her, “is that, while this goes on, you will be acquainting yourself with the techniques you will need to pleasure a man with your mouth.”

“My mouth? But... that’s where you urinate!” the girl protested.

“Not while we’re doing this, I promise you.”

“But -”

“You’re going to do it, or I’m going to haul you out from under the desk in all your half-clad glory for my visitor to see,” he warned her.

She tilted her head to the side in challenge. “I can’t imagine how that would be worse for me than for you.”

On wonderful, miraculous cue, someone began knocking, loud and hard, on his office door. “Seneschal? Are you in there? We had an appointment, serah!”

Bethany’s eyes went wide and staring; he favored her with one last smile before settling himself on the edge of his chair, already feeling her warm breath ghosting over his member. He smoothed his face, took up a pen, bent over the many papers on his desk and called, “The door is _open_ , Serah Hawke. There is no need to knock it _down_.”

The tiny, wiry woman straight-armed the door open and stalked in. She was armed and armored, rather than wearing a more appropriate gown; Bran wondered if this was habit or an attempt at intimidation. She paced to the front of his desk and glared down at him. “This is ridiculous.”

“Have a seat, serah.” Bran gestured at one of the chairs on her side of the desk as Bethany’s tentative tongue-tip traced a short curve around his head. “We are discussing the back taxes on your mother’s estate, correct?”

“Correct,” Hawke growled, not sitting. “We didn’t _own_ the estate for those years. How can we be responsible for taxes on it?”

A series of somewhat bolder licks brought a ghost of a smile to Bran’s lips. “I believe your mother’s argument to the viscount was that the estate did indeed still belong to her. If it was hers, then she is responsible for the taxes.”

“Cute. But that’s not quite what she said.” Hawke drew a folded parchment from a scroll tube at her side, opened it and deposited it on his desk. She splayed one hand flat on it and leaned forward angrily. Bran met her eyes levelly, but it took considerable willpower not to lean forward and kiss her. He didn’t even find her _personally_ appealing, but the thought of having both sisters’ lips on him nearly made him spend. “What she argued - and what the viscount’s seal is here approving - is that Gamlen Amell _had no right_ to sell the estate, nor to trade it away. Ergo the ‘sale’ to the slavers was invalid, and ownership should _revert to_ my mother.”

“Let me see that,” he said, brushing at her hand as if it were an insect perched on the letter. Hawke withdrew it slowly, then crossed both arms over her chest.

Studying it was mostly for show, and to give Bethany some more time to practice. She evidently wasn’t finding it as disgusting as she’d feared, and as her sister tapped her foot impatiently on the other side of a wood panel from her, she finally took the tip of him into her hot little mouth, tongue swirling with more enthusiasm than skill. Bran disguised a contented sigh as a sort of grumble, rereading lines he’d already reviewed. He had to admit, he was a little surprised this doglord mercenary out of Lowtown had understood the matter so clearly; perhaps Leandra had --

 _”Hnrk.”_ Bran’s eyes widened in surprise as Bethany suddenly leaned forward, taking a fair third of him into her mouth.

“See?” Hawke crowed triumphantly.

“Yyyes,” he said slowly, scanning the document until he could tap the relevant lines with his finger. Those words were very boring and very _important_ right now, because if he could just focus on _them_ and not on how Bethany must be straining against those tiny cruel clamps to pleasure him like this, he might make it through the meeting. “A subtle distinction. Well... well-spotted, serah.”

“As if you weren’t already aware.” Hawke pursed her lips and uncrossed her arms, placing her hands on her narrow hips. “I’ll thank you not to play these games with my family, Seneschal. We’ve rendered exemplary service to the viscount over the past year and I believe that ought to count for something. Or perhaps you’ll whistle up someone else willing to talk to the Arishok for you.” He could feel Bethany nod in agreement, under the desk, sliding back and forth her lips with each small bob of her head.

He favored her with the wan, vague smile he reserved for business, so well-practiced he could call it up under even circumstances such as these. “Of course the city appreciates your service, Serah Hawke. The exchequer simply requires that we attempt our best to balance the books. All landowners must pay their fair share.”

“We’ve no issue with our _fair_ share, Seneschal. If we are finished...?”

“I will tell the exchequer to clear your mother’s bill to the date she was reinstated as Lady Amell.”

“Very good. Good day, Seneschal.”

“Good day, Serah Hawke. ...If you could close the door on your way out?”

Hawke sighed noisily, but yanked the door shut as she went.

A heartbeat after he heard it latch shut, he nudged his chair back far enough to look down at Bethany. She lost him as the chair moved back, but he was treated to the sight of her straining forward, tongue extended, trying to lap at something just beyond her reach. “Look who’s become such an eager little cocksucker,” he smiled, and Bethany immediately stopped, blushing. “Far be it from me to keep such a lovely little slut from what she wants.”

“Well, now that Marian is gone, I don’t think - _ah!_ ” Bran laced his fingers into her thick hair and pulled her forward, til the tiny clamps lost their grip and slipped free. “ _Ouch_ , you _bastard_ ,” she gasped, until he firmly pulled her, open-mouthed, onto his cock again.

She continued to make muffled sounds of protest as he rocked her head back and forth, filling her mouth with inches to spare. Maker, he wanted to pull her all the way to him, push down her throat and feel her swallow around him; he could almost justify it as playing to her own dark fantasies of abuse. But it was too soon; if she startled or gagged, there could be teeth. That would be such an unpleasant end to an otherwise delightful afternoon.

“You almost gave the game away, you brazen little chit,” he said, recalling what would surely become a favorite erotic memory. “It was quite enough to have your sister’s mouth working me over - professionally, of course - on the one hand, and yours on the other, and then you had to go and take a mouthful... I had no idea you’d be so hungry for cock, my dear. Getting enough now?”

Bethany made an indignant sound, her lips humming around him. “Oh, good. Because I’m about to come; swallow it all like a good girl.” She protested again; he ignored it, pulling and pushing her harder and faster until the hot tension in his belly uncoiled. With a gasp, he spent himself in her hot, eager mouth, holding her close until the last spasms passed.

With a contented, quiet groan, he settled back in the chair, rocking her back onto her shins at the same time. Her lips were crimson, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes dark and wide. After regarding her thoughtfully for a moment, he slid off the chair to sit on the floor before her. “What are you - _Maker,_ ” Bethany outright moaned when he leaned forward to gently tongue her poor abused nipples. She immediately caught herself, clenching her jaw shut against any other sounds, but with a bit of slow and careful work he was still able to tear a few desperate whimpers from her throat.

He trained his tongue up the compressed swell of her breast, over the ropes and the scarf, and up the edge of her ear. “Do you want to come, Bethany?” he hissed, whispering low and dark. Her breath caught, and after the shortest hesitation, she nodded. “You’re only going to come on my cock, girl. Tell me you want it.”

She whined beseechingly but said nothing. He dipped his head to bite at her neck again, eliciting another gasp, then was immediately back by her ear. _”Tell me,”_ he ordered.

She trembled, but still said nothing.

Bran sighed. “Very well, then.” He stood, then leaned down to help her to her feet. “Turn around so I can untie those knots.”

Bethany blinked in lust-fogged confusion. “What?”

“I thought I was very clear. Did you expect me to break the rules I set myself?” Bran shook his head. “I’m a bureaucrat, my dear. Rules are positively a fetish for me.”


	4. Chapter 4

Bethany spent the next day trying to mentally _will_ the seneschal to bend her over the desk. Although being used like a toy and then set aside was pushing buttons she’d only half-understood that she had, her body wanted release.

It was a long and frustrating day. Her work was half-mindless, giving her far too much opportunity to let her mind wander to other, dirtier pastures. And if she _did_ manage to concentrate on something else for more than a quarter hour, Bran would surely drift by with a furtive grope or a hard, probing kiss that did nothing but heat her blood - and then leave her wanting again, as he continued on his way to tend to one thing or another.

She thought she had somehow attained a new level of magical prowess when, after supper, he _did_ grab her by the back of the neck and push her, face down, over that wide, inviting desk. He pulled her robes up and kicked at her feet until they were spread wide. “Why are you even _wearing_ smallclothes?” he mused, and she felt something small and cold slide briefly at the top of each hip, and the undergarments fell away. Must’ve been the pen knife he kept to sharpen his quills.

She choked, forcing her throat closed when his hand searched between her legs. “Oh, _that’s_ why,” he chuckled, feeling the extent of her wetness. She was pretty sure at least the tops of her thighs were slick. “I’m sure the leather chairs appreciate your forethought.” Her legs trembled as his fingers slid over her too-sensitive folds. Just... just a little more like that, and she, she would, she was almost ready to --

Of course the bastard stopped. She made a strangled sound that was half sob, half angry cry, and he paused. “Something you wanted to say?”

No. No, no, no. She was not going to lose this contest. She was not.

“Apparently not.” She heard one of the desk drawers open again; a moment later, something hard and... oily?... drew a brief line down her tail bone, before trailing down into the cleft of her ass. It paused right over her arsehole, and to Bethany’s surprise, _pressed in_.

“What are you _doing?_ ” she demanded, squirming on the desk.

“Relax. It’s just much bigger than a finger.”

“What’s not much bigger than a finger? What are you doing?”

“You really have no idea.” Bran sounded amused. Her head was turned so that one side was flat on the desk, so she could see him bend low over her back to say into her ear, “I’m _going_ to fuck your delightful little ass.”

Her eyes went wide. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

“But...” She tried to stand up, but he leaned into her, pinning her on the desk. “That’s... I don’t...”

“You don’t,” he agreed. “I’m going to _make_ you. Make you take it _all_ , Bethany, for as long as I want.” He nipped her earlobe sharply before adding, “I’m going to _rape_ your ass.”

She whimpered, back arching of its own accord, and she felt the hard, oily something press and wiggle against her. “Relax,” Bran said again, his voice just a bit warmer, kinder. “It’ll go better for you it you do.”

She tried, and she felt the thing begin to slide into her. Maker, it felt... she liked the slide but wasn’t sure about feeling opened like that, back there. Bran diddled her with it for a few minutes, and she came to realize that it was flared, and opening her wider with each thrust... until it _wasn’t_ wider, it was suddenly narrower, and she could feel herself close around it. Some part of it was still between her buttocks, and it stayed there as Bran stood and let go of her neck. “Now get up, we have somewhere to go.”

She got up, but looked at his infuriatingly smug face with confusion. “But you said...”

“I didn’t say _when_. Now fix your skirts and let us be off.” He offered her his arm. “We have an appointment at the Gallows.”

Walking from the Keep to the Gallows wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be. The plug in her rear sort of settled in; she was certainly aware of it, but it wasn’t really uncomfortable. At least, not physically. She hoped she wasn’t walking strangely. Were people staring at her?

If they were, none dared to _say_ anything, and they reached the Gallows without incident. She half-expected him to simply escort her to her cell and tell her she had to wear that device all night; but no. Past the corridor leading to the First Enchanter’s and Knight-Commander’s offices were other rooms, set aside for meetings and (they said) sometimes interrogations. Bran stopped outside of one and turned to face her, looking... almost nervous.

“You remember our agreement,” he said, and she nodded. “Yes. Well. I’ve arranged for some friends of mine to meet us here tonight. Templars.” She felt her eyes go wide. “I know, that’s well past what you agreed to. I want you to... just meet with them, at least. You’ll be back here in the Gallows in a week and a half, and you should know some people you can trust.” He glanced down at the floor and half-smiled. “I suppose you have only my word that they are trustworthy, but I will put it this way: I want my special mage friends to be well looked-after. And these are the templars who I believe will do that for me.” He looked back up at her. “I’ll ask you if you are ready to return to your quarters. If you are, say that you are ready to go. If you would prefer to _stay_ , ask if we can’t stay a bit longer. They will do nothing you have not already experienced. Do you understand?”

Bethany nodded, mouth dry. _Templars?_ Would they be ones she’d already met? Maker, would that be better or worse?

Bran opened the door, and they went inside. Three templars sat idle in chairs around a large table, chatting among themselves; they rose as the door opened. “Oh!” Bethany stopped in surprise. Not only did she know two of the three, she’d already seen one mostly naked. Young Ser Keran, the trainee she and her sister had rescued from Darktown blood mages, flushed red and seemed to suddenly find the tops of his boots immensely interesting.

Ser Emeric, whom Bethany remembered as a gallant older templar particularly concerned with protecting women in Kirkwall from a repeat killer, stepped forward to greet the seneschal warmly. “Good to see you again, serah,” he nodded. “And you, Mage Bethany.” His voice was rough with age and lyrium; she hadn’t really noticed before, but somehow knowing why Bran had called them here made a difference in the listening.

“Good evening, ser,” she managed, voice mostly steady.

“I trust all is well at the Keep? No troubles as Circle Liaison?”

He was watching her carefully, she realized, blinking up at his clear blue eyes. If she were having second thoughts about what she was doing, she could escape the situation right here and now. “No trouble, ser,” she answered.

“Good! Glad to hear it. I wanted you to know how much I appreciate the help your sister gave me, down in Darktown.” Emeric’s smile seemed warm and genuine. “There aren’t too many people in Kirkwall, let alone Lowtown, willing to look beyond their own problems to help others. If I can repay her efforts by making sure you are comfortable here, I will gladly do so.”

“Thank you, ser,” Bethany said, and meant it.

“And I’d like for you to meet Ser Agatha.” He gestured to the templar she did not know, a stern-faced woman of middle years, with raven-black hair and pale skin. “And Ser Keran. We find we share a similar philosophy regarding the proper role of the Order... even if our point of view is unpopular with the Knight-Commander.”

“Well, I’m glad someone is a, a voice of -” Bethany stopped herself from saying ‘reason.’ Friendly they might seem, but it simply wasn’t safe to say anything critical of Meredith within the Gallows’ walls. “A voice of compassion.”

“Just so,” Emeric agreed.

“Well. If introductions have been made, I believe we may be done here.” Bran broke in briskly, “Liaison, shall I escort you to your chambers?”

That was her cue. Stay, with very non-anonymous, very real templars ( _a woman! What was she supposed to do with a woman? Maker’s breath, would she learn which six things? Or was she supposed to know them already?_ ) or go, to her room, alone with Bran, who might or might not stay.

_In a week and a half, you’ll be coming back here. Then what?_ Emeric would look after her, she was sure, regardless of whether she stayed or went. Did she want to continue her... _adventures_ once she returned from the Keep? With these three? ...a young man of fair face and good heart, a hard-faced woman, and an older man with a voice of Kirkwall ash and grit and a wave of silver hair?

“Couldn’t we stay a bit longer?” she heard herself ask.

Bran leaned back to slide a bolt across the door. “I think that can be arranged.”

“I... I think I should go,” Keran said unexpectedly.

“What?” the rest of the room chorused.

The young templar blushed harder under the scrutiny. “I... I didn’t realize... we were meeting Mage Bethany,” he stammered. “I, um... I...”

“You,” Bran said, eyes narrowing, “are an extremely _fortunate_ young man who should count himself _lucky_ to --”

“She saved my life!” Keran blurted out. “Literally, saved my life and my _soul_ , from demons! I can’t... disrespect her. It wouldn’t be right.”

Bran exchanged a glance with Emeric, and then looked at Bethany. He dipped his head toward Keran. “I suppose that is difficult to argue against, ser. But I think you may be disappointing the lady. I was _so_ hoping to find her a companion closer to her own age. Bethany,” he looked at her again, eyes glittering, “perhaps you can convince Keran that you would like him to remain?”

Bethany nodded and bit her lip thoughtfully, then walked up to Keran. “Hello,” she said simply.

“Hello.” He smiled.

She looked at him, then looked away, then squared her shoulders and looked back at him. “It’s not really real,” she said earnestly. “You’re a good person, I believe that. You don’t want to _really_ hurt people, or abuse your authority.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Keran nodded gratefully. “I’m glad you don’t think --”

She pressed a hand lightly to his chestpiece. “But you came here tonight because you want a mage girl to suck you on her knees.”

Keran’s handsome face froze. “Uh...”

“Or paddle her for her transgressions against the Chantry, until her bottom is red and she’s begging you to stop.”

“Bethany, please, I --”

“It’s okay.” She swayed closer to him, eyes luminous. “I don’t think it’s wrong for you to want that. I want for you to do it. To me.” She cracked a smile. “Does that make me crazy? Or... debauched, maybe? Is that the word?”

Keran shook his head. “No, no. You’re... you’re lovely. And innocent.”

Behind her, Bran snorted. “She’s got a finger’s width of granite shoved up her arse. Not quite so innocent as all that, lad.”

Keran goggled, and Bethany nodded, smiling shyly. “Please stay,” she implored him. “I’d like it very much if you did.”

“Well... I suppose... I don’t know if I’ll, you know, _do_ anything, but I could... uh, stay.”

“If that’s resolved,” Emeric clanked up behind her, and reached around her with bare hands to undo the fasteners on her robe, “Mage Bethany requires an introduction to the true power of the Templar Order.”

“You were an apostate for many years,” Ser Agatha said, retrieving an unobtrusive sack from where it had been idly dumped in a corner. “You came here willingly, but how long before you try to run?”

“Oh, I won’t,” Bethany protested. “It’s actually nice, being able to use my powers openly.”

“That’s good to hear,” Emeric nodded, drawing her robes back from her shoulders. “But you should be aware of the stick as well as the carrot.” She felt the robes pool at her feet, and then Emeric’s bare fingers brushed the nape of her neck, just under the knot of her scarf.

_Mana_ crackled under his touch, her power jolting out through her skin. Casting was a controlled warmth, power flowing easily out at her command; this was like a cascade of sparks, small and sharp points of heat. She jumped at the novel sensation. “Maker’s breath,” the templar swore. “You have _power_ , girl.”

“Good. More playtime for us,” Agatha declared, nudging Keran aside to step in and _kiss_ her. The sparks burned across her lips and she tried to pull away, but Agatha put a firm hand behind her head and held her there, drinking away her mana. “Mmm,” the woman hummed approvingly, finally breaking the kiss, only to drop a line of them along Bethany’s jaw. Her other hand sought out a breast, and soon mana was being pulled through there, as well.

Emeric soon joined in with both hands, skating over her shoulders and down her sides. Three hands and a mouth were too much; with a cry, she tried to twist away, only to be caught by the senior templar and pressed hard against his chestplate.

Panting and straining, she looked beseechingly at Keran, who was staring with a sort of horrified interest. “Mercy, ser!”

He startled. “What? What do you... do you want them to...”

“It’s - _ah!_ \- taking them _so long_ to drain my mana, ser, and _OH!_ ” Agatha had moved her attention somewhat south, caressing a nipple with her tongue while stealing magic through the same skin. It was delicious and excruciating and Bethany was suddenly not sure if she _wanted_ Keran to participate, if it would speed things up.

“Oh! I... I guess it would be merciful to end things more quickly,” he said, convincing himself. He touched her hesitantly, but she bucked in Emeric’s arms nonetheless. Less experienced than either older templar, the new recruit pulled mana harder and with less finesse, a burning slap compared to the fiery prickles from the other two.

Six hands, all making sparks of mana fly from her skin... it was too much, too much, and Bethany reflexively tried to pull away. Emeric tightened his grip and Bethany bit back a whimper. Bran was bigger than she was, and a man, which made him strong _enough_ to hold her down, but he wasn’t truly _strong_. Emeric, a trained warrior of the Chantry, _was_ , and Bethany found she may as well have been wrapped in the arms of one of the Gallows’ bronze statues, for all the good her struggling did. He carefully slid an arm up until he caught her under the jaw with his hand, then kept lifting until her head was tilted back against his armor and her throat was under his hand. The red scarf was no barrier to the mana drain, and she shook and whined as he pulled again. She could feel his approving rumble through the armor.

She was nearly empty of power when Agatha rested a hand on Keran, directing him back from her. She barely had a moment to wonder what that meant when the sky fell.

The power washed over and through her, forcing open the place in her spirit where she carefully stored and monitored her mana. Years of training made her instinctively try to hold onto the mana; discipline and control were always the watchwords, always the rule. But there wasn’t a single thing she could do; the strange power laid her open and the mana tore free, a blazing sensation of pain and sweet release and dizzying emptiness. It rolled through her like a wave, like her climax, and carried her floating away to the stars...

She wasn’t entirely how long it had been when she realized she wasn’t floating away, she was being carried. Emeric deposited her gently on the table, cold and smooth and hard under her. Ropes - from Agatha’s sack? - went ‘round her wrists, drawing her arms up over her head, angled out to the corners of the table.

She expected a similar treatment for her ankles, but no. Agatha and Keran, on opposite sides of the table, stepped into view. “Now, under the leg and then through, just above the knee...” Agatha cinched rope around her leg, Keran watching carefully and then copying. “Now, pull toward the head.” Bethany’s breath caught as they spread her thighs wide apart, her splayed knees almost at either edge of the table. “Secure the ankles and that’s it.”

_”Maker.”_ She heard Bran groan from somewhere back past her head; a few soft footfalls and she could see him, circling the table, staring at her display. She felt like she should turn her head to the side, seek a pretense of modesty in avoiding that heated gaze, but she wanted to see him desiring her more than she wanted to play along with her own fantasy.

“Change in plans, seneschal?” Emeric asked, politely curious. He was also out of sight, but she could hear bits of armor being set carefully on the floor. (“Should I undress?” Keran asked Agatha in an undertone. She shrugged. “Do you want to?”)

_Change in plans. Change in plans!_ She didn’t even know what the plans were or what they might get changed to. But it would mean that he wanted her _that much_...

Bran hesitated, looking torn, but finally shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “But the night is young, isn’t it? Besides, I understand the next bit is on a schedule.”

“Well, we have some flexibility, but... yes. Blindfold?”

“I think that’s appropriate.” And a moment later, Bethany could no longer see.

The first drops landed on one pebble-hard nipple. For a brief moment, all she felt was _cold_ and then _wet_ as it started to run over the curve of her breast. Just before an eager tongue could lick her to catch it, she felt the effervescent tingle - not with her skin alone, but with her spirit-sense. Empty of mana, she could scent the power in that liquid even through her skin.

Lyrium!

A few more drops settled in her navel, making the skin come alive with sensation. A mouth sealed over her belly to suck it out as more lyrium was poured to anoint her other breast. Even after it was licked clean, she thought she could feel a tingle where it had been... and a yearning. Like a hungry man longing for an aromatic stew, or a young woman teased without release for three days, her mage-body knew it needed that power and clawed toward it - fruitlessly.

Soon there were hands as well as mouths on her, two sets bare and warm and one set still in gauntlets: gliding caresses up her inner thighs, stopping just short of the patch of hair between her legs; dull nails scratching lightly across her collarbone; hard squeezes of her sensitized breasts.

When someone poured lyrium over her toes and began to thoroughly suck it off, tonguing each digit, _and_ someone else began spanking those out-turned thighs, she cracked. Bethany wailed, the wall of silence finally crumbling. The templars clearly took encouragement from that, and she was soon under a veritable assault of touches and kisses, both hard and soft, all over her body. It was too much, too perfect, she was being driven gloriously out of her mind and no amount of struggling against the ropes could stop it.

The struggling turned to outright thrashing when fingers spread her lower lips and a few drops of lyrium dribbled over her clit.

What had been an invigorating tingle elsewhere was an icy-hot burn on the delicate skin. The spirit-yearning was stronger, too, less coherent and more insistent as the barrier between the lyrium and her blood was thinner. She moaned, the sound taking on an edge as no avid mouth came by to clean the lyrium off her.

Hands on either side grabbed her bucking hips and held them to the table. “...still _mine_ ,” she heard Bran say crossly. “Well, be more specific next time,” Ser Agatha shot back. There was the sound of a gauntlet hitting the floor; she jumped under the strong hands pinning her to the table. Fingers - Agatha’s, she assumed - spread her open again, and she jumped again at the contact. A few quick touches - which, on the lyrium-buzzed skin, left her panting - and the lyrium was largely wiped away, leaving behind a pulsing, throbbing hot/cold feeling that was more endurable. She lay limp, making small whining noises, when they let go of her hips.

“Everyone done?” Emeric asked.

“With lyrium, yes,” Agatha said. “But you can leave her there just a bit longer for me, if you please.”

“Alas, I cannot be her first _everything_ ,” Bran sighed. “I shall have to solace myself with the watching of it.”

“May I join you?” Emeric again.

“Always, my friend. Let me get rid of this doublet, though...”

The blindfold was lifted from around her head, interrupting her attempt to make sense of _that_ conversation. Agatha leaned over her and smiled. “I’ll make it easy on you this time.” The mostly-armored templar boosted herself up onto the table and knelt straddling Bethany’s chest. She parted the chain-and-cloth skirt and tucked it back. “I’d assume you’re familiar with the basic principles,” she said. “Find the top of the arch and lick.”

Bethany blinked up at her, wrung out and a little confused. “But I’m not... I don’t... you’re a woman.”

“Kind of you to notice,” Agatha said dryly. “If you have a problem with that, princess, the time to have said something was _before_ you started screaming while I nibbled those lovely breasts. So,” Agatha shifted forward and lowered herself towards Bethany’s face, “let’s see if you can serve woman as well as man, mage.”

Maker’s breath, was she really supposed to do this?

On the other hand, was it any stranger than what she’d done already?

“Keran, she needs a fire lit under her ass. Think you can do that?”

“Wha... um, yes, ser. I think so, ser.” A moment later, Bethany felt a tentative slap at her spread thighs.

“She didn’t even feel that,” Agatha said. “You won’t break her, Keran.”

Keran had to try a few more times to gauge the strength right, but when the slap made her jerk slightly, Agatha gave her approval. “Now just keep that up until I’m done,” she said. Lowering her voice, she added to Bethany, “Just a thought: if you start _now_ , then you _might_ finish me before he makes you cry.”

Her lyrium-sensitized skin was already smarting, so Bethany decided not to put Agatha’s taunt to the test. Taking a deep and aromatic breath, she cautiously extended her tongue, poking into the wet folds of skin above her.

_Slap!_ She winced as Keran landed another blow and abandoned caution. She was surprised at the taste, or really the lack thereof; a sort of mild musk and salt. It wasn’t nearly as bitter as what Bran had made her swallow yesterday.

_Slap!_ Her fears on that score settled, Bethany set herself earnestly to work. “Up... up... mmm, there! Just there.” Agatha moaned happily and ground herself lightly against Bethany’s mouth, making her lose the place she’d just found. Determined, she retraced her path with her tongue, and judging from the contented sounds the templar was making, she found it again. “You’re going to be _really good_ at this some day, I can tell,” Agatha said. “I’ll take you to the women’s barracks and leave you _slap!_ tied to a bunk as the shift whore, and they’ll keep your tongue wagging for hours and hours...”

Agatha was just talking... wasn’t she? _Slap!_ Bethany made a small, pained sound as Keran connected again; her thighs felt hot and stinging and the blows were starting to build on each other. Agatha gasped, like an echo. They were all three joined, she realized: Keran’s blows tied to Agatha’s release; her own cries coming from his blows; and from the sound of their heavier breathing and Agatha’s quiet moans, the templars liked hearing her. So had Bran, she remembered, when he’d taken the switch to her. She abandoned what scraps of pride she’d been clinging to and cried out, full-voiced (although obviously muffled), with the next slap. “Don’t stop!” Agatha demanded, and Bethany wasn’t sure if she was speaking to her, to Keran, or to them both.

Not that she was planning on stopping. Her eyes were watering, she was more than ready for Keran to stop spanking her, but he wouldn’t, not until Agatha was done with her. Even if this wasn’t exactly how she’d imagined it, she was still trapped at the rough mercy of these templars until she pleased them, still living out a fantasy that had dogged her for years. She lifted her head from the table, straining to lick harder, faster, quaking and squealing as Keran began to slap her faster in his own excitement.

And then Agatha’s thighs were clamped around her head, the templar grinding down into her mouth and shouting a positively blasphemous invocation to blessed Andraste. Remembering how she liked to finish herself off, Bethany slowed her attentions but didn’t stop, not until Agatha rolled to one side and slid off the table. The templar turned right back around and kissed her, deep and hard. “Maker,” she swore, and pressed a gentler kiss to Bethany’s forehead. “I like you.”

“Can I be next? _Please,_ sers?” Keran asked, sounding slightly desperate.

Emeric chuckled warmly; Bethany turned her head to look at the source of the sound as Agatha began to undo the knots that held her down.

She had really, really not expected to see the senior templar, leaning against the wall, clasping the senschal to his chest, back-to-front, his other hand slowly stroking the bulge in Bran’s pants. “By all means,” he said indulgently. “Lad your age, you’ll need once just to take the edge off and then be ready to go again, I imagine.”

“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser.”

Bethany wasn’t really listening. Bran caught her staring and smirked, then deliberately circled his hips, pressing back against Emeric. The templar growled appreciatively and pressed lips to his neck, either a kiss or a bite.

Then the spectacle was blocked as Keran suddenly loomed in front of her, arms reaching out to help her up and off the table. Her knees protested when she tried to stand, and she pitched forward; Keran caught her by her upper arms. He’d apparently followed Emeric’s lead rather than Agatha’s and had discarded his armor, and she found herself a scant inch from his well-muscled chest. She looked up at him through her lashes. “Yes, ser? Now what, ser?”

Keran guided her silently to her knees, so that his straining erection was before her face. She looked up at him again; Bran and then Agatha had told her what to do and when to start, so shouldn’t she wait for his cue? But Keran didn’t seem to want to talk. He rocked his hips so that the tip of him brushed against her lips.

Well, that certainly seemed clear. Bethany opened her mouth and took him in. He was smaller than Bran, which meant she could suck on more of him.

Bobbing her head up and down, she snuck occasional glances up at him. His eyes were closed and he was leaning on the table with both hands, making a cage of his arms around her. He still wasn’t _saying_ anything, which left her unaccountably disappointed. She wondered if it was as hard for him to say what he wanted her to do for him as it had been hard for her to tell Bran what she wanted done to her...

Then, with no sound or warning, he was coming. Surprised, Bethany felt some of it drool past her lips before she sealed them more tightly around his shaft. He pumped so hard, she thought she could feel it hit the back of her throat. She swallowed; she _had_ to, there was so much of it filling her mouth, and Keran wasn’t done yet.

Finally, she could feel the spasms subside and he pulled back with a relieved sigh. She went to wipe her mouth but he caught her wrist; he swiped his other thumb across her chin and then pressed it to her lips, too.

Intending to get him to say _something,_ Bethany affected puzzlement and started to ask, “Wha-” but Keran simply gagged her with his thumb, pushing it into her mouth. So she stared up at him until he muttered, “Oh,” struggled through another moment of silence and finally ordered, “Lick it. Off.”

Bethany complied enthusiastically, drawing lines and swirls along the pad of his calloused thumb with the tip of her tongue, tasting his seed and some of Agatha’s slick there. She saw Keran’s cock, still half-hard, give a twitch at this treatment, and she hummed, pleased.

“Don’t get him too worked up,” Emeric ground out from across the room. “He’s got to wait for his next turn.”

Bethany obediently slid off Keran’s thumb, releasing it with an audible _pop_. The young templar stared at her with wide, lust-blown eyes before muttering something that might have been, “Thanks,” and retreating.

Bran _and_ Emeric had lost their trousers and were _both_ crossing the room to her. She tucked her chin down to look up them, smiling coquettishly...

...not expecting Bran to grab her by the hair and drag her roughly forward, away from the table. She half-scrambled, half-slid across the floor, clawing ineffectually at his wrist in surprise. When he let go abruptly, she was unbalanced and fell totally to the floor. “ _What--?”_ she started to ask, trying to rise to her hands and knees.

Bran grabbed her hair again, pulling her head sharply back to look into his face. “Your mouth’s for things besides talking,” he sneered, in a tone decidedly crueler than his usual composed, diffident manner. “Silence, unless you’re spoken to.”

Bethany’s eyes widened as her heart started to pound. It didn’t take a great leap of imagination to suspect where this was going. “Yes, ser... serah,” she gasped. “Please don’t hurt me, serah.”

He slapped her. He slapped her! Almost casually, as if she were some common doxy, not a mage who could summon fire and ice to her very fingertips... if she’d had any mana. Which she didn’t.

“If I want to hear you beg, I’ll tell you,” he said, and dropped her head again. She huddled on the floor, panting and shaking, and he stepped behind her. She felt a tug on the toy nestled in her rear, pulling her open until the flared base began to pull out. “And if I want to hurt you, _I will_.”

Bethany mewled into the floor, eyes shut tight. She had a notion of what was coming, but not what it would feel like, or what _exactly_ they were going to do, and the uncertainty was an electric thrill down her spine.

Bran played with the plug for a moment, twisting and thrusting with it, before withdrawing it entirely. She heard it hit the floor and roll off, and then her hips were lifted and something hot and slick and much, much thicker was pressing into her arse. She tensed, instinctively resisting the intrusion. “Going to fight me, eh?” Bran asked behind her. “You won’t win.”

In truth, she wasn’t. He was pushing, slow but hard, and opening her wider and wider. Tensing just made it hurt. Bethany took a deep breath and willed herself to relax. Bran chuckled. “There’s a good little slattern. I knew you wanted it.” He jerked his hips, suddenly driving the flared head of cock into her. Bethany cried out; the strained muscles burned, even as her delicate skin hummed under the oiled slide of him. “The rest is just filling her tight little bottom,” she heard Bran say. “I’d go ahead, if I were you.”

Large hands fastened on her shoulders and lifted until she was on her hands and knees. Opening her eyes, she saw a cock rising out of a patch of grizzled hair that had to belong to Emeric. He pushed his thumb between her lips, then pried her jaw open. A moment later and he’d thrust entirely into her. Her stomach knotted as his member touched the back of her throat; he withdrew and she stopped gagging. But then he pushed forward again, a leisurely pace that let her breathe, but promised that he’d be at it for some time. “Mmm. Hot little mouth,” she heard the older templar sigh.

“Pity she doesn’t know how to use it.”

Emeric pushed forward again. “Does she need to?” he asked, amused. “Is she tight?”

“Maker, is she,” Bran groaned. “Hope you’ll forgive me for keeping this to myself for the moment.”

“We’re taking turns once you’ve opened her up, aren’t we?”

“Of course. The importance of the Circle Liaison program is how it brings the Viscount’s Office, the Holy Order and the mages _together._ ”

Bethany whined weakly around Emeric’s cock. Take turns? They were going to spend the rest of the evening with her servicing the templars with her mouth and arse?

_Oh Maker._

It was a fantasy she hadn’t even ever had. Before yesterday, it wouldn’t have occurred to her that she’d want a man’s member in her mouth; before this evening, she wouldn’t have thought to imagine taking one up her rear. But here she was, on the floor, two men using her in such _dirty_ ways at once... Her eyes were watering from repeatedly gagging, her jaw ached, and her arse burned and gaped under Bran’s relentless assault; her inner thighs still tingled from Keran’s spanking, and her breasts and clit still sparked sensation from the lyrium.

And it all made her insanely, madly hot. Bethany _needed_ to come with these two men in her. She resisted the urge to help herself along until they both, coming close to their own releases, began to thrust harder and more roughly, driving into her without restraint or concern, exactly like she’d always dreamed.

She lifted one hand from the floor and snaked it back to her throbbing clit. One, two, three little touches and she seized, wailing around Emeric as her rear clenched around Bran.

The seneschal did not take it well. “What? You --! Disobedient little _bitch!_ ”

He grabbed her hair again and pulled, bending her back so that she came right off of Emeric. The templar, nearly at completion, made a supremely unhappy strangled noise as he took himself in hand and pumped the last few strokes he needed. Bethany felt the hot, sticky seed splatter on her cheek as Bran shook her head. “What did you do? _What did you do?”_

And then he pushed her down, hand on the silk scarf around the back of her neck, until her face was pressed against the floor. Leaning over her back, he began thrusting into her punishingly hard, a savage pounding that turned her sore and stretched hole into a blaze of pleasure/pain.

_OhMakerohMakerohMaker it’s so hard and fast and **perfect** and--_ The climax took her by surprise, a second rush of ecstasy that rose out of her fading first orgasm and washed over her with no warning. She shook, pounded the floor with her fists and, unthinking, cried out: _”Bran!”_

She heard the now-familiar stutter of his breath as he slammed home one more time, then the shorter, lazy strokes that worked him through his own climax. She heard a few rough, panting breaths, and then he withdrew and, grabbing her hips, tumbled her over.

It was _very difficult_ to remain cross with a nubile young woman who screamed your name while you rode her arse, Bran found. _But_ this was a matter of discipline. She’d been instructed not to touch herself, and she had - in front of three guests, no less.

He looked down at her in silence for several moments. Maker, she was a sight: flushed, red lips parted, dark hair in glorious disarray framing those big, dark eyes that _still_ managed a doe-like innocence, even when her face was smeared with Emeric’s seed. Her expression of glazed contentment slowly faded and sharpened into anxiety as he continued to regard her narrowly. She looked aside as if embarrassed and said, “I’m sorry, serah.” But she snuck a glance back out of the corner of her eye, and Bran was sure she was too eager to learn what her punishment would be.

“Bethany Hawke,” he said severely, and she looked back up at him, eyes widening at his tone. He crossed his arms and frowned. “I am _very disappointed_ with you.”

Tears welled up in her eyes almost instantly. She was a good girl, was little Bethany, who had always tried her best to live up to her parents’ expectations. _Disappointment_ was the sharpest lash he could strike her with. “I’m sorry!” she repeated, more earnestly this time. “I didn’t mean... I got carried away and... it won’t happen again, I promise!”

He shook his head. “We are _done_ for the evening.” Turning to the templars, he added, “I am sorry to promise more than I could deliver, sers, but I trust you understand that I can’t reward her for that sort of behavior.”

“Of course,” Emeric nodded.

“Clean her up and get her back to her cell, if you would. Her proper punishment can wait for tomorrow at the Keep. I’ll see if I can’t get some work done tonight to make room in the schedule.” He didn’t have to feign the annoyance in his voice as he pulled his clothes back on. He loathed last-minute changes to the schedule.

Ser Keran was looking at him oddly. “What are you going to do to her?”

“Nothing permanent, lad.” The boy needed to grow a tougher skin. “But I’ll not have days of effort undone in an evening.”

“But -” Ser Agatha interrupted him with a hand on his arm. “I’ll explain later, Keran,” she reassured him.

He’d just gotten on his boots when he heard a snuffle and an uncertain, “Messere? Bran?”

He resolutely did _not_ look at her. He was half-certain that if he did, her resistance would finally fold and she’d beg to stay here with him and the templars for the rest of the night. And that would be so immensely tempting, he might not follow through with the punishment she deserved. So he got up and made for the door without looking back.

“Bran? I’m sorry! Bran!” Her tearful cries behind him were sweet and bitter, beautiful, painful music. It was a moment in which he knew himself to be broken somehow, that his blood would quicken at the sound of a girl’s tears.

It was better to think of the work that he’d need to get done, to prepare for tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

She arrived the next morning, circles under her downcast eyes. _Every inch the penitent,_ Bran mused, as she shut the office door at his gesture. “Didn’t sleep well?” he asked, not entirely unsympathetically.

“No, messere,” Bethany replied softly, hands clasped in front of her.

“Dreaming up phantom punishments, I’d wager.” He smirked and leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. “What did you come up with?”

She looked up, startled. “Nothing, messere. I didn’t... was I supposed to?” Her fingers twisted anxiously. “I could try and think of something now...”  
Bran’s smirk faded into a puzzled frown. “Well, what kept you up, then?”

“Just... worrying. About...” She sighed and tossed her hands up. “Don’t you worry, when someone’s upset with you? How upset they are, if they’re _still_ upset, whether you can apologize, or...”

He blinked, baffled. “I’m the seneschal of Kirkwall. Someone is _always_ upset with me. That... bothers you?” The miserable look on her face was answer enough. _Ah._ That was not the response in her he had meant to elicit. “Bethany, I... apologize. Please, sit.” He gestured to the visitor’s chair, and she took it hesitantly.

He didn’t know her well, but he had observed her closely her first two weeks here. Some of that, plus this... “Do you want people to _like_ you, Bethany?”

“Well... naturally. Yes,” she nodded.

“It’s important that they have a good opinion of you?”

“I suppose so. Not to a ridiculous extent, of course.” She sniffed. “I have my pride.”

Bran closed his eyes for a moment. “Indeed.” Maker, they were going to eat her alive in the Gallows. He opened his eyes to see her watching him warily. “A piece of advice for you: learn to not care if they like you, or if they’re upset, or if they’re angry. Always _know_ , when you can, but don’t _care._ ” He held up a hand as she started to protest. “You are a young and powerful mage entering a very closed world. You will want to do something, get involved, help. Someone will take that amiss; what you see as ‘helping’ they will see as ‘pushing them aside’ - a threat. They will be upset, they will hide it, and they will use your charming desire to be well-liked to lead you into trouble. Be suspicious of favors and unexpected requests for your assistance or involvement in something. Weigh your own self-interest before you commit to a thing.”

She was gaping at him. “That’s... so cynical! It’s not a bad thing to help people out when you can.”

“They will set traps for you. I am quite serious. This is _politics,_ dear girl, a trade I know well.” She made an exasperated sound and shook her head. Of course - she was nineteen and knew everything. Someone _else_ would have to take that innocence from her; he found he didn’t mind at all. Whomever it was, she wouldn’t thank them for it. “As you like it, then,” he shrugged. “But to address your immediate concern: I was angry, quite angry, in the moment; I remain unhappy that several days of work was undone. And while I thought your self-control was greater...” He allowed a half-smile to show, “I admit that I am not _entirely_ displeased at the thought of administering the required punishment.”  
“You’re not mad at me?”

“No, not mad.” She smiled brilliantly, and he wasn’t sure if he should be unhappy or relieved that she would be going back to the Gallows before he tired of her.

“So...” With her mind at ease, her spirits were returning as well. Still smiling, she looked at him sidelong, through her lashes. “What _is_ my punishment to be, messere?”

“This way.” He stood and beckoned; she jumped up and followed.

The side room had been storage, years ago; he _did_ work enough late nights to justify clearing it out to hold a bed and some personal items. It also offered just a touch more privacy than his office, which was important when the viscount could drop in unexpectedly. He ushered Bethany into it, then stood in the doorway. She looked down skeptically at the bed. “Is that armor?”

“Of a sort.” He stepped in to pick the assemblage of small, curved plates and straps up; held just so, it took on a familiar aspect.

“Armored... smallclothes?”

“To keep you from touching yourself for, say, the next four hours.”

“Four hours? That’s not very long.” Bethany took the chastity belt warily. “What’s the catch?”

Bran smiled widely. “Have you ever tasted orichalcum?”

Bethany looked up sharply. “Isn’t that something rapists use?”

Bran just laughed. “Only in moralizing stories about innocent milkmaids who become fallen women in the great evil city. Remove your smalls and put this on.”

She snatched the thing from his hands and turned resolutely around. It looked like you did the belt around the waist, then fished the middle part up from behind, between the legs. After shimmying out of her drawers, she threaded the belt under her robes as Bran continued. “I suppose it might be a danger to anyone without a sense of smell. It has a wretched odor, strong like lye; you simply cannot miss it, especially if it is right under your nose in a cup. One drop is enough to keep the guests at an orgy willing _and_ able for the evening, their interest _aroused_ , if you will. _Two_ drops is... about where you were last night, I should think. Three, and the Grand Cleric would strip naked in front of the altar and diddle herself with a candle - while services were ongoing.”

Bethany wasn’t sure if she should be scandalized or just uncomfortable with the image of Elthina doing anything other than reciting the Chant. She bent over to catch the middle strap and pulled it up. _Oh,_ the metal was cold! “And... how many drops will you give me?”

“I should tell you some ridiculous number like six,” Bran mused. “But you must watch me dose the cup. It will be two; enough for your first time with it, I think. Is it on? Come here and show me.”

Bethany paused to straighten her robes and crossed the room in a few steps. The curved metal strip was a little awkward between her thighs, but it had at least warmed up quickly. She parted the robes and drew them back to either hip, trying to be businesslike about it. Considering how much time she had already spent with him naked or half-dressed, it didn’t seem like it should be a notable event... but being ordered to display herself still gave her a little electric jolt.

Bran’s fingers quickly sketched the lines of the chastity belt, ensuring that all was in order; then he drew two small padlocks out of a pocket and applied them to the strap around her waist and the one fastened up between her legs, snapping them through holes in the leather. He paused, looking down at his handiwork, and Bethany saw a small smile play on his lips. “Do you know,” he asked, “that this may be the first time I have ever applied that device to anyone with chastity to preserve?” Fingertips brushed over the metal, a distant, vague sensation of pressure and little else, then ghosted over her bared belly, up over her chest and throat, to finally tip her chin up to look at him. “All locked up and waiting, just for me.”

She stared back wordlessly, swallowing so she wouldn’t whimper. It simply wasn’t _fair_ that words - that weren’t even an incantation! - could _do_ that.

He hooked a finger into the scarf at her neck and tugged, leading her back out into his office. The decanter of wine and a small cup were on a bookshelf; the colored glass vial was hidden in another drawer. He poured a measure of wine into the cup and handed it to her. “Smell it.”

She did. “Smells like wine.”

“As it should. Now...” He took the cup back and removed the stopper from the vial; it had a long, narrow tongue that had to go most of the way into the bottle, like Mother’s perfume used to. Liquid beaded at the very tip, and she saw one drop fall into the wine.

 _”Eugh!_ Bethany fell back a step. The contents of the cup smelled like something in the Gallows’ alchemical laboratory, acrid and harsh. “I have to _drink_ that?”

“It _is_ a punishment,” Bran observed mildly, adding a second drop, then putting the stopper back in the vial. “If you are ever offered this at a party, do be sure you watch to see how many drops are put in. The odor is obvious, but the concentration is not.”

“Good advice, I guess,” she muttered, a little unclear on when, ever in the rest of her life, she would be going to _parties_ outside of the Gallows, particularly sex parties where they drank orichalcum.

Not that she expected two weeks as Circle Liaison to turn into a days-long demonstration of different kinds of weird sex. So maybe there was hope.

...wait, when did she start _hoping_ to get invited to crazy sex parties?

Bran pressed the cup into her hand. “Now take your medicine like a good girl,” he smiled.

Taking a breath through her mouth and holding it, Bethany drained the cup. It tasted less awful than it smelled, but _still!_ Bran solicitously offered her sweet tart from a small plate on his desk and she took it gratefully, happy to have something to get the taste out of her mouth. “Good. Now, the accounts receivable are on your desk. Please review them.” And he sat down at his own desk, sorting through a stack of notes.

Accounts receivable?

Well, _fine_ , if he was going to ignore her, then she’d go and _review_ the stupid accounts. The warmth in her belly was just a glass of wine on a light breakfast, nothing especially eldritch about it. Possibly there wasn’t anything to it at all; Father used to say that the mind could play all sorts of tricks on the body, harming or healing it depending on what a person believed. The suggestion that the drugged wine could arouse her might be all there was to the ‘alchemy’ here. So if she just focused on the accounts instead of the game, she’d forget all about it. And that would show him.

It took a moment to adjust herself, sitting with the belt on, but soon enough she was checking the columns of sums. Professional. Focused. Sixteen sovereigns, thirty-two bits on this page. Next page, item one: ten suits of armor ordered for new city guardsmen, ten sovereigns. So twenty-six sovereigns and _pulled back against hard steel, a hand at her throat as roaming hands teased out mana bit by bit -_

That was last night. Yes, very memorable, but she wasn’t going to think of that right now. She gave herself a little shake, which had the effect of wiggling the steel between her legs, making her suddenly aware of just where it ended, just below _her hole, stretched wide and tight around Bran’s cock, so that it ached and burned and felt so **good** as he slid it in and out - _

Bethany bit her lip and flipped the page back. Sixteen and thirty-two. Next page. Plus ten. Twenty-six and thirty-two. Steely Hawke determination got her halfway down the page, despite the unarguably real fire burning in her belly. But it didn’t _stay_ there; it crawled out, flooding down her thighs and up her torso, leaving her skin tingling as if it had just been caressed. She thought she could feel every thread in her robe, teasingly shifting against her when she moved.

Bran had his back to her, absorbed - apparently - in his papers. Marian had too many tricks to know what those behind her were up to for Bethany to think that he might not be paying any attention at all. Still... she leaned forward into her desk, crossing her arms atop it. That would put either nipple right within reach of her thumbs, so she could at least -

There was a knock at the door. “Come,” Bran said. The door opened, and Aveline strode in. “Seneschal,” she said crisply. “I have ten recruits in need of armor. Am I going to get it, or are they going to have to go on patrol in shirtsleeves?”

Armor. Ten suits of armor. Hadn’t she just read something about ten suits of armor?

“Good morning, Guard Captain,” Bran said, deliberately slowly. “And how are you this fine morning?”

“Come on. Neither you nor I has time for small talk and pleasantries. I’d think that at least the Keep’s _staff_ could dispense with that nonsense, in the same of getting some work done.”

“Quite well, thank you. Now: I am quite certain that the armor was ordered, per your request. The Circle Liaison is assisting me with some bookkeeping this morning.” - _No, no, don’t send her over here!_ \- “She can tell you if the viscount’s office has released the money to the smith yet.”

“Thank you,” Aveline ground out, and Bethany was fairly certain that the mumble that came after was “you ass.” But her broad face lit up when she was Bethany. “Bethany! It’s good to see you!”

She took a deep breath and hoped her voice would come out steady. “Hello, Aveline. You, um... I heard something about armor?”

“Yes, if you could check the books and see if they’ve gotten around to _paying_ the man who makes the... are you all right?” The warrior bent down over the desk, concern on her face. “You look flushed.”

 _Gauntlets close lips breath **sweet Maker, it’s Aveline, stop it!**_ “I’m, um. All right. It’s... the robes. I’m not used to... heavy robes. Let me, um.” She practically threw herself down into the ledger. Armor... top of the page, right?

“Heavy robes might not be a bad thing,” Aveline said quietly, and leaned in even closer. “I’ve heard things about the seneschal,” she said in a low tone that zipped straight down Bethany’s spine, leaving sparks as it went. Air puffed lightly on her ear as the guard captain continued: “If he gives you any trouble, you tell me.”

Bethany nodded, not trusting her voice. She scooted her chair to one side, as if to make room for Aveline to look at the ledger, too, and tapped it importantly. Aveline predictably turned to look, and Bethany took an unsteady breath. She had some personal space back. That was good.

_push you up against the wall and manacles and -_

“I see a bunch of numbers.”

“Um, there.” Bethany pointed quickly, then sat back, away from Aveline. “T-ten sovereigns. It, it...” She shut her eyes tight and focused. “It’s a receivable account. The viscounty will pay upon receipt of the goods, but the funds have been set aside to cover costs. The smith is guaranteed payment if he does the work.”

She opened her eyes to see Aveline beaming at her. “You’ve really learned a lot here in just a short time!” She clapped Bethany on the shoulder. “It’ll get easier to remember as time goes on, I bet. Thank you for the update; that was just what I needed to hear. But I’m afraid I’ve got to get back to tearing apart Jevan’s duty rosters. You...” she glanced meaningfully towards Bran, “take care, Bethany.”

“I... will. You too, Aveline.”

The door closed behind her and Bethany let herself sag against the wall, panting. “You’re handling it very well,” Bran said approvingly, turning from his work to look at her. “Just three and a half more hours to go.” Her back arched involuntarily in response, and he chuckled, turning away from her again.

 _Three_ and a half...? 

Sod that. Time to cheat.

Bethany’s hand stole between the layers of her robes, finding that metal shield which promised three and a half hours of frustration. Summoning up a tiny bit of power, she shaped it into a simple force spell. She hadn’t been at the Gallows long, but it seemed that nearly every older apprentice knew how to create tiny telekinetic waves of force. Now she had an idea of why.

The telekinetic shiver spell brought the metal buzzing to life. She hadn’t expected it to be noisy, and hastily crossed her legs around the metal, trying to muffle it. Too late - Bran turned in his chair, one eyebrow raised. “Am I going to have to tie your thumbs to your belt as well?” he asked.

She pressed herself forward against the shell of metal, desperate to reach a climax before he told her to end the spell... but he didn’t. He just watched, eyes glittering.

She intuited that was probably a bad sign, but was well past caring. Biting her bottom lip, Bethany rocked in her chair, hands going to her breasts of their own will. She was close, so _close_ and then - _!_

The spell flickered and died as she came, her concentration shot. The removal of the vibrations right at the point of climax made it a less than explosive affair, but it was _good enough_ and she moaned quietly. _There._ That was better. She smiled, just a bit cockily, at the seneschal, and opened her mouth to say something clever -

\- when a wave of lust crashed right back over her, stealing her breath and her wits. A confused “Hunhgh?” was all she managed instead.

“Three and a quarter,” Bran said. “And that will be all for magic, I think. Very clever, although ultimately useless. I suppose I’ll have to bind you in the closet to keep you from working any more tricks, eh?”

Bethany’s eyes went wide. Three hours, alone in that little room, aching for touches that never came? “Maybe we can do something else,” she suggested quickly.

He raised that eyebrow again. “I’m listening.”

 _Shoulder jaw neck lips..._ Emboldened by burning need, Bethany leaned forward to kiss Bran, one hand snaking around the back of his neck to pull him to her harder. What she lacked in experience, she hoped she made up for in ardor, all smashing teeth and probing tongue.

A hand on her breastbone _just move it a little to the left or the right, would you?_ pressed her back. “That’s less a suggestion and more an assault.”

 _Buttons should not be done up._ Bethany reached for the shiny gold ones on Bran’s doublet. “You left off birching me when I told you what you wanted to hear,” she said shrewdly. His other hand closed over one of hers. She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat and glared up at him. “And you said all I had to do was ask, and you’d bend me over the desk. So... let’s do it. Over the desk, on the desk, on the floor, in the bed, _I want you._ ”

His sleepy eyelids lowered fractionally, and she pushed herself forward, against him. “Like you wanted Aveline a few moments ago?” he asked, voice low but teasing.

 _”No,”_ Bethany snarled. She was aroused, she was frustrated, and she wanted to skip the games. “That was the _drug_. I want you, you _know_ I’ve been wanting you, and you wanted to hear me say it so _I am saying it_ , let’s get naked and put your penis in my vagina, _am I being explicit enough for you?”_

 _”Now_ I see the family resemblance,” Bran mused. “You’re being awfully demanding for someone in your position.”

All right! That was it! She’d freeze the bastard in a block of ice, find the key herself, unlock the damn belt and --

“But I suppose everyone’s first time on orichalcum is different. It is a very,” he stepped forward, pressing her back, “tempting,” another step, “offer.” She fetched up against the wall, stared at him with lust-fogged eyes for a moment, then lunged for his mouth again.

She felt his hands slide down her sides, down to her hips, stopping on the wide leather belt there; she keened, rocking her hips forward into his. “Get it off me, then,” she whispered in his ear.

“I’m afraid that would be terribly unethical.”

_”WHAT?”_

He caught her wrists as she went to claw at his face. “You’re drugged with an aphrodisiac, young lady. You didn’t consent to anything beforehand, so it would be very, _very_ wrong of me to take advantage of your situation.”

“No no _no no no no_ don’t you _no_ what are you -”

“And I’ve scheduled an appointment with the viscount, just to keep me honest. I’m afraid,” he sighed heavily and nuzzled her neck, “that you’ll have to wait here.”

“I hate you _so much!”_

“I know.” She tried to slap the smirk off his face, but the grip on her wrists was solid.

She did not make it easy for him to wrestle her into the little storage room and secure one hand, then the other, to the frame. She got one kick off, but the angle was awful and it bounced weakly off his hip. 

All the anger and aggression in the world wasn’t going to help her now. Her desperation was mounting as he checked the ropes, snug but not tight; that was it, he’d really be leaving soon and she’d be stuck here with her belly on fire. “Please,” she choked out, voice breaking. He looked up sharply. “Please, Bran, don’t go.”

She _saw_ him waver, but he just shook his head. “I can’t keep the viscount waiting.”

Bethany made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob and let her head drop back onto the pillows as the door closed behind him.

Bran closed the door, then half-collapsed against the wall beside it. The page had to be arriving soon, but the little idiot could wait if it came to that.

He fumbled in his haste to draw himself out of his trousers. Maker, he had _not_ expected that, that she'd go by turns ridiculously, awkwardly brazen; then vicious spitting hellcat; the so, so _sweetly_ broken -

Through the door, he heard her croon his name again; it undid him. He came hard, seed arcing halfway to the desk. Panting, still twitching, he stumbled back to his chair and sat down hard. _Andtaste's dripping quim, that was unexpected._

He very much enjoyed insisting on titles, especially when his playmates were more highly-ranked nobles who would normally snub him as 'serah' on the street. Making a comte call him 'messere' was a most satisfying exercise. And while it certainly sounded fine on Bethany's red lips, he was finding her new habit of calling his name _much_ superior.

_Perhaps it comes from being a mage. The only titles they care about are inside the Circle, and they always know that whether you're a lordling or the viscount, they can set you on fire and there's not a blasted thing you can do about it. That sort of takes the sting out of using the title._

He had just finished blotting up the mess on the rug when the knock at the door came. He wrenched it open to find a young boy in the viscount's colors standing stiff and straight on the other side. "His Excellency sends word that he must cancel your appointment this morning," the child announced.

"My word," Bran said gravely. "Something must have come up. Is it anything I can assist him with?"

The boy paused, trying to work out the right answer. "His Excellency only said that your appointment is canceled."

"Very well, then," Bran nodded. "Thank you." The lad nodded, turned on his heel and marched off.

It wasn’t as if the weekly status meeting was _urgent_. It was merely _important,_ unlike arranging for the visiting Orlesian bard Saemus favored to entertain at his upcoming nameday celebration. That was why Bran had quietly diverted said bard’s requests for the viscount’s time, to keep his Excellency from becoming distracted with such a trivial matter.

 _Oh dear_ , had he _accidentally_ swept the bard’s latest letter into the pile of correspondence he left for Dumar last night?

It appeared that he had.

He shut the door hard, savoring the muffled, anguished, “No!” from the side room. Quietly, he returned to his seat. Paperwork was _ever_ so much more pleasant with such music playing. Although rather less productive...

Hours later, the moans, groans and occasional sob had been reduced to tired whimpers. It was time to check on her. He rose, crossed the room to open and close the door again, then opened the side room.

The light from the doorway framed her in a bright rectangle. He wished he’d had the foresight to undress her; her nude, sweat-slicked body would have been glorious. As it was, he contented himself with the sight of her hair, tangled from tossing her head; lips red, parted and panting; eyes almost closed as she strained after satisfaction. They opened slightly at the sight of him, and he could see her tracking him as he reached for a decanter on the shelf outside the room. “You must be parched.” He poured a glass of wine, set it on the floor, and then untied her ankles. He helped her slide up the bed, til she could sit partway up. Since her wrists were still bound, he carefully held the cup for her to drink from. She took a few grateful swallows, paused for breath, and drank some more when he tipped the glass further. “I’m sure you could use some lunch as well,” he murmured as she drained it. 

“Yes, messere,” she all but croaked. “Thank you, messere.”

“So polite.” He cupped her cheek softly and turned her face toward where he sat on the edge of the bed. “Have you learned your lesson, then?”

“Yes, messere. I’m not to touch myself without your leave.”

“That’s right.” He kissed her softly on the forehead and released her, then stood to untie her hands. “You’ve taken your discipline and promised to do better, so let’s put that behind us. Refresh yourself, finish your tasks for the day, and we’ll resume our games.” He paused as she sat just in front of him, chafing her wrists. “Unless you wish to call an end to it.” Always best to check on these things, after someone’s tried to claw your eyes out, even if he suspected it was merely a formality.

She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, dark hair hanging in beguiling disarray. “Must we wait?”

 _Vixen._ “Yes,” he said firmly, as much for his own benefit as hers. He knelt down on the mattress, straddling her legs, and shoved her back suddenly back against the headboard. “I have tried,” he said sternly, “to give you what you wanted, in as many degrading ways as possible. And what _I_ want,” he leaned forward, “is to hear your pretty begging again, well after this blasted drug is out of your body, so you _know_ who conquered your... _virtue_.” He let contempt drip down that last word, and saw her blush fiercely as it conjured up every single thing they’d done so far. He leaned even farther forward, to speak directly into her ear. “It will be tonight. I will grant you this much victory, girl; I will have you tonight, one way or another, but it is my intention to _break_ you first.” He felt her shudder and mewl something incoherent that might have been _please_...

He stood up abruptly. _Tonight, tonight, just until tonight..._ He’d best get back into the office before she took off her clothes or some such thing. “Fix your hair and come out for lunch. We will resume _later_.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was a long, long afternoon, and then an even longer evening. Several times, Bethany began to wonder if Bran had thought the better of things and decided to just send her home tonight, but then she’d catch him staring at her with such naked hunger that she shivered. He was just waiting, as impatiently as she was, for something else.

It was full dark and the keep was quiet when he beckoned her out of the office. _Where are we going? Back down to the dungeon?_ But no, they turned left down the wide, empty hall to the throne room. Bran paused with his hand on the door. He looked up toward to the top of it, not at her, when he asked, “Unless there’s somewhere else you’d rather remember...?”

It made her smile. She wouldn’t call him ‘sweet,’ not ever, but he was so careful with all the details. “The site of our first... liaison? It makes a circle; I like that.”

He nodded and pushed the door open. She followed.

After almost three weeks in the keep, the throne room was mostly familiar - during the day. Now it was a forest of shadows, the great columns pale in the moonlight, and those ugly giant brass birds looking even more sinister than usual. The dark purple banners shifted in the sea breezes that came in through the open windows, undulating like living things.

It was beautiful but also eerie, so much so that she had gone a bit on her guard. When Bran, at the edge of her vision, had turned to step towards her, she instantly fell back two steps. It was an old reflex, learned during the past two years in Lowtown, and she instantly felt silly.

The same old experiences (and even older ones, of more innocent games played in green fields) told her that the man in the shadows there was changing stance and getting ready to run - to charge, to run her down. She bit back the instinct to encase him in ice and instead, turned and ran herself.

She laughed, despite herself, as she ducked behind one of the great columns, then angled off toward the stairs. It was like playing can’t-catch-me back in Lothering, right when she was finally old enough to _want_ for some of the boys to catch her; just because she wanted to be caught didn’t make the attempted escape less exciting.

She tore past the throne and turned down one of the galleries. A dead end, of course, so she’d have to try and dodge past Bran. She turned around and -

\- Oh. Oh _dear_. One of the two of them wasn’t used to climbing the Sundermount and jogging along the Wounded Coast. Bran was following, but almost grimly, and she suspected that if there was more light, he’d be entirely red in the face. Well, _that_ wasn’t an auspicious start to the night. Bethany gestured, summoning the same rejuvenating energies she used to keep Marian and her friends going in fights. There, that would -

\- better dodge left! -

His hand closed on her wrist anyway. Her arm snapped straight and momentum swung her around; he hauled, and she found her cheek pressed against his silk doublet. A moment later, and they were both on the floor and her robes were rapidly coming undone. He shucked his doublet and shirt and then -

\- Bethany squawked as Bran grabbed one of her ankles and unceremoniously _dragged_ her across the gallery, back to the center of the room. Layers of robes trailed behind her, caught on the rug. Hands caught her under the arms; there was a lift and turn and -

She was sitting on the viscount’s throne.

She looked up at Bran, standing over her. “Can we do this?”

“Do you see anyone here to complain?” He bent to rest his hands on the armrests, putting his face level with hers. “Anyone to stop me from taking you, here, tonight, and making you my own?”

Levity and lingering indignation evaporated. Eyes wide, she shook her head.

He lifted one hand to brush fingertips lightly down her front, drifting over the curve of her breast and belly until they rested on the wide leather belt she still wore. “Then there’s no more need for this, tonight.” She could hear his breathing get louder, rougher, as the little key turned in each lock; she didn’t share his obvious _interest_ in the process, but seeing open desire instead of his pretended disinterest was new, different, and exciting...

The locks hit the rug with two small _thunk_ sounds, and Bran tossed the rest of the belt behind him. Eyes burning in the darkness, he instructed her, “Hands up. Grab the top of the back and don’t let go.” She did, and leaned back when he pulled her hips forward, toward the edge of the seat. Then he lifted her knees, each in turn, and hooked them over the arms of the throne. 

She felt cool night air on her slick, wet skin, reinforcing the splayed-out, open feeling the obscene pose gave her. It was only magnified further when Bran stood again and just _looked_. She arched her back and whined, half invitation, half protest.

She expected another spanking, right atop the few faint marks Ser Keran had left yesterday. She didn’t know what to make of it when Bran knelt, leaned forward and -

 _”Ah!”_ Bethany bucked, scrabbling to keep hold of the top edge of the throne, as _sweet holy Maker was that his tongue?_ flicked across her hard, swollen bud. Her own fingers had never felt so _intense_. A few long, slow licks alternated with quick, delicate flutters had her howling inarticulately, certain that she was going to have some sort of pleasure-induced stroke momentarily.

...which was naturally when the red-headed bastard moved his attention to her inner thighs, nipping and kissing. He pressed the palm of one hand to the center of her, and she tried to grind against it, but lifting herself by the knees was a bit tricky.

Then, just as her breaths came evenly again, he parted her folds with two fingers and reapplied himself. Her head fell back and she moaned ecstatically. This was The Best Thing, she just knew it.

Twice more he teased her toward the edge of a climax and then, when her body had tensed and lifted from the throne, wandered his hands and mouth elsewhere, until she relaxed again. At first, she could think of nothing better than to just keep feeling this, forever... but after the third retreat, she desperately wanted release.

She lifted her head up and looked down at him. The motion caught his eye and he returned her gaze - and deliberately slid a finger into her.

Bethany rocked in surprise, but not really in pleasure. She did like the feeling of him sliding it in and out of her, but it wasn’t much of anything compared to what he was doing with his mouth. 

Right until an eager, diffuse warmth suddenly radiated out from inside her. It wasn’t as intense but it felt deeper, somehow. Then there was a second finger curled beside the first, stretching her as that strange but very _good_ feeling continued, and she saw him smile as he extended hiss tongue _again_...

Bethany let go of the chair, mindlessly thrashing against the storm of sensations, and in a moment he was looming over her again, hands gripping the throne to either side of her, making a cage of his arms around her. “I said _not_ to let go,” he rasped, voice low and threatening.

She stared. Would he _stop_ things to punish her for this transgression? _Oh, no. Maker, Maker, no._ “I’m sorry, messere, my arms were getting numb, messere,” she all but babbled, “and please don’t stop, please I want, I want, I want to come, please, with you in me.”

She heard his breath catch; one brief moment of silence passed, then he hauled her up by the arm and pushed her toward the railing at the top of the stairs. It caught her at the waist, and she grabbed onto it with both hands. Twenty feet to the floor below, and the ceiling still soared above; looking ahead of her, Bethany felt strangely light, as if she might be floating among the immense columns.

Bran came up behind her a moment later, his legs bare against hers as he positioned her to his liking. She ended up feet apart, leaning on her arms crossed on the rail, a pose that bent her at the waist as if he’d pushed her down over his desk, as he’d so often mentioned.

They both cried out as he began to push into her: she, a high, bright sound of anticipation; he, a low moan of excitement and need. He went slowly, one hand dropping to fondle her clit. The little jolts of pleasure took the edge from the burn she felt as he opened her, deeper and deeper. But it faded quickly, and was easier to take than his entrance last night. At last, his thighs were pressed close to her own; she had him, all of him, in her. That warm, deep feeling had returned, and she rolled her hips experimentally, trying to get more of it.

“Just... a moment,” he said behind her, voice strained. “I want to feel you... Maker, you’re as tight as an elf.” He folded over her back, nipping at her neck through the scarf she’d been sure to wear. “You should see the, the view from back here,” he whispered roughly into her ear. “The way you’re clenched so tight and dripping around me... tell me you want me to fuck you, Bethany.”

“I did! I said I -”

He cut her off by fisting a hand in her hair. “Those words. _Those words._ Say them for me!” His other fingers pinched her clit, and her hips again tried to buck of their own accord.

She took a trembling breath. “Fuck me. I want you to fuck me, Bran. _Please._ ”

He bit her shoulder, but he started to move. Long, slow strokes rubbed that spot inside, the diffuse pleasure growing, but not _enough_. She tried thrusting back to meet him, but he simply went still. “Tell me what you want,” he rasped.

She whined, words escaping her. She finally tried, _”More.”_

He laughed, not his coolly amused chuckle but something altogether wilder. “Sorry, you’ve taken all I have. There isn’t any _more_. Do you mean you want me to fuck you _harder_?”

“Yes!” She butted back against him ineffectually. “Harder, fuck me harder!”

“Your wish...” He stood up and soon she had to brace herself to keep her collarbone from being driven into the railing. She cried out, full-voiced, the sound echoing around the empty chamber, as he hit that spot inside her, over and over...

He grabbed her hair again, pulling her head back, and she was again looking out into empty space. “Now!” he half-shouted. “Shatter for me!”

The unexpected roughness, the command - she flew, a crash of pleasure sending her soaring among the great columns. She thought she might have called his name, just before it seemed that she did shatter, break into a hundred shining pieces that drifted slowly back to earth.

She heard him roar behind her, the sound so different from the stuttering gasp she’d come to expect. He slammed into her once, twice, three more times, before snapping his hips home with a short, sharp cry, bending low over her back again.

They stayed like that, panting, for a long moment, then Bran eased them both to the floor. Bethany lay against him bonelessly, hardly noticing one hand wandering down her side and over the curve of her hip. She made a mildly inquisitive sound when it dipped between her legs, but it hardly seemed worth actually forming words over.

Sex with other people was _astoundingly_ nice.

Bran brought his slicked fingers to his lips and tasted them, then offered them to Bethany. “The taste of your first time,” he said, voice still rough. 

It didn’t sound appetizing, but why not? She sucked his fingers clean, tasting their mingled salt and bitter. A bit symbolic, she supposed. Sighing contentedly, she looked up into his eyes - and was surprised to find them still hungry. “What now?” she asked. “I suppose I... go back to the Gallows?”

“That would be very disappointing,” he said, reaching out to roll one of her nipples between his fingers. “There are at least three other ways I hoped to take you tonight.” 

“I... oh! Oh. That... sounds good,” Bethany said. “People do that? More than once?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied, settling himself atop her. “Many, many more times than once.”


	7. Epilogue

Isabela sauntered into Viscount’s Keep, alert for some sort of trick or trap. But no: there was Bethany, waving nervously from the foot of the stairs. “Sweetness, I thought they sent you back to the Gallows last week,” she said as she approached the young mage.

“I... sort of got an extension. Thank you for coming, Isabela. I really need to talk.”

Isabela studied her for a moment, then pronounced, “You had sex.” Bethany turned bright red, and the pirate laughed. “That’s a _good thing_ , sweetness. Or it should have been.”

Bethany pulled her over to a bench in a more quiet corner of the room. “It was... yes, very nice,” she admitted, still blushing fiercely. “I just need to... check that I didn’t make a mistake.”

Isabela tilted her head. “I’m listening.”

“I did some things... I can hardly believe I really did it, during the day, you know? Everything seemed like such a good idea at the time, but I never thought... I mean, if I should really have...”

Isabela chuckled. “Sounds like some shore leaves I’ve had. Don’t be ashamed of what you want,” she said, tapping Bethany on the nose. “If it’s something you _didn’t_ want but did anyway... don’t do it again.”

“But... but I -”

“No buts,” Isabela interrupted. “A dwarf in drag once, remember? Life’s too short, sweetness. Get everything you want out of it - you deserve it.”

Bethany smiled, relief clear on her features. “Thank you, Isabela.”

“You can thank me by dishing the details! Who was it and how was he? Or... she?” Isabela raised an eyebrow.

Bethany blushed again. “...a bit of both?”

“Now this I _really_ need to hear!”


End file.
